I want to call you, I do
But I have so little time alone
I have shreds here, an hour there
Never any unbroken by needs
I just want to sit here a little longer

A time of quarantine, a house to hold us
We are lucky, I know this, I feel it, yet
I grow smaller, I feel eaten alive
Am I even my self still?

Do I still have a name of my own?

I might find one if I can summon the energy to
Drive, walk, run away from this house so full
For a day or an afternoon, and don't
Lecture me right now because I've tried

And failed fifty times this month alone
I know how selfish I am, but it's innate
I can't abandon the qualities I don't like

This is my life, a prix fixe menu
You have to take me as I am, and so do I,

It's just life

Not of ancient lore,
or some cross to bear.
But here. But now.
No Prince Charming
at the castle door.
Only her, Miss Damsel herself.
In some paper city,
called Zilch,
where things fall apart fast.
She's trapped in no tower,
but a loft instead.
With tin-foil crown,
she climbs across
the kitchen table
to slay the dragon,
in the flames
of his own black-hearted
bedevilment.
A dagger to the heart
of the matter,
and all is quiet again.
Then with a satisfied yawn,
she retires for her afternoon nap.