The bride in her white lace
Glides across plastic pavers
Outside the castle,
Prince Charming on her side,
Her carriage awaiting, gleaming
Glass slippers catch the light—
And it’s not her fault that I grew up.
Tucked in a basement box
Like the first ten years of my life.

I never learned to put my hair in a ponytail,
Not the pretty kind.
Not graceful, not smooth,
Those lessons of girlhood slipped by.
How to make my jeans zip with a safety pin,
How to put my hair in a twisting towel turban,
How to keep that one bathroom stall locked.
But that pesky ponytail,
Only Mom can make it look right.

Tripping in black ballet flats
To church on a Sunday,
Gazing at stained glass Mary
On an altar made of wood, glowing gold
In the little white Chapel.
Its roof line puffs out
Like a ballgown unfurling
As the bells chime.

Waking up at six am in high school
To cry while straightening hair over the bathroom sink,
Watching a moth repeatedly hit the lampshade.
And wishing to tell her,
“I feel the same way.”
Buying matching pajama sets
But defaulting to old sweatpants
And middle school tee shirts.
Eating spoonfuls of peanut butter at midnight
As the blue lights of the TV flicker
While the world spins round.

In the mirror I dab on eyeliner,
Take it off, try again.
A hair tie on my wrist,
I don’t know who I got it from,
A cross hangs on the wall,
And below it Cinderella sleeps.