and I didn’t say it would be good, so don’t say I didn’t warn you.
——
I wanted to be wild. When I
was younger, I would imagine myself
into stories— not into the red folds
of a riding hood or the glass-footed glamor
of any princess’ life; rather,
I wanted wilderness, a forest under rain,
night and strange noises from between the trees.
—
But instead, I built ivory towers, born of fear.
Bricked myself up, transformed year by year,
dyeing and dressing character
on skin too pale from time indoors.
Somehow, it mattered. I saw myself in oval frames,
fairytale mirrors, reflections of my sad realities,
glimpses of a chance to be someone more.
—
I would dream of jumping. In a perfect world,
I would land on burning grass and
I would run. I would pick up my skirts
and race; I would shed the skins
of expectations and be free, be alone.
—
But, if I tried, I am afraid I would find
myself bound even by wolfish wares; like
the legends of men who became the creatures
whose pelts they wore, I would be trapped
by my desire. I would dream about the hunter
who would return me, lock the door and leave me
with my thoughts to tumble out
and down into the world, wasted, each silken thread
golden with longing and fragile with its weight.
—
So I will stay, until the moss grows deep
between the cracks of my identity
and the bottom falls out beneath my feet.
There will be no prince to climb my hair,
nor any warrior to claim my pelt.
Just stone, and silence, and alone
with the strange noises carried on the breeze.
——
(PS the working title is something like “savage stories,” but I didn’t want to actually call it that because I am embarrassed of my utter inability to title things).
