Rapunzel
When the old woman died I wept for her
so you'd think I'd never left her,
frail as a bird with no one to fly to,
to feed with her stories and sacrifice.
I want to tell you
the fairytale doesn't talk about it all:
how I grew to tower over her
and so strong from the weight of that fearsome ladder of hair
that I knew I could snap her in two like a knucklebone
as soon as look at her.
And this frightened me
so I almost thought I dreamed the prince
when he finally climbed up
and oh she was terrible light compared to him.
I had to get away from her eyes
always searching me for evidence of my mother's yearnings.
But she did bring me dainties, didn't she?
And lullabies?
She said that I'd belong to her
all my days and she was right.
She stroked my fevered brow
and gave me my name.
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