(the princess wants to cut her hair)
in her cramped, stuffy, high tower room
pink wallpaper and glitter clipped to ceilings
the princess lies wide awake at noon
waiting for the knock at her door
her mother on the other side with
a tray for lunch and noontime snacks
(the princess wants to starve)
she grabs the yellow, silky strands
crumpling them in her grip, pulling
until her scalp aches from the pain
of breaking under the pressure
the sensation reaches her spine
dancing on the fragile discs of
her delicate neck, like a collar
bet i could snap it like a twig
her mother comes in, none the wiser
never really knowing her daughter
hates the skin she was born in
eyes darting to the tower window
a quick escape route to the voices
telling her she will never be enough