Daddy's little princess found a dress
hanging in the closet of red distress.
She paired it with a crown of dazzling lie
a migraine wrapped in gold supply.
She tried it on, and the silk turned stone,
and whispered low, “Your grief is not grown."
The hem recoiled from her trembling skin,
as if to say, “You have not let sorrow in.”
The sleeves clutched tight like hands of fate,
and said-"You have yet to earn this weight.”
Her father smiled, “They fit you well,”
blindfolds forged in optical hell.
His love shaped pledges peeled too soon
like decals on glass in a monsoon.
She left behind the world he built
a kingdom dressed in love and guilt.
And in her wake, the forest sighed,
relieved that the fairy tale had died.
But somewhere still, beyond the din,
a girl weeps, lacking thickened skin.