My mother told me to paint my face
and smile like I want him.
She told me to pull the corset of her expectations tight
suck it in, suck it all in, until I can’t breathe
under the weight of her eyes.
She told me to comb my hair, pin it with her smiles
be nice, Allison,
be lady, chef, mother, virgin and whore
because your life is not about you, not anymore.
Lock me up and throw away the key;
I’ll climb the walls for a glimpse of the sky.
I want to scream—princes are weak;
they hide behind steed and steel
and what their mothers told them I would be.
When the apples have fallen from my cheeks and the
pins in my hair are rusted in place;
when the key has fallen to the bottom of the well
and I’ve stopped climbing—
I am worth the rescue.
Obedient. Kind. Demure.
But I want to make him work for it.
Show me what that sword can do—
maybe I’ll light a fire and fight too.
Mother promised knights in shining armor and
white horses, but he’s a boy
in tin foil and paper crown.
I’ll scrub my face, burn this corset to ashes,
take these pins and pick the lock.
Nice is blue lips, pale skin—
complacency on a death bed.
Good girls who shed their wings—
I am not nice.
I am woman, raw and untamed;
a forest fire that will melt his sand castles to the ground,
melt my tin-foil savior, burn him like his paper crown.
These princes are weak;
I want to ride dragons.