I understand the prick of a needle,
and prune hands from hours of washing the floors,
and sacrificing myself for my father,
and giving away my voice to find true love.

I feel my blonde hair cascade around my face
as I am doomed to sleep forevermore,
stuck in an endless cycle of restlessness.

I feel the salt of my tears stream down my cheeks,
my ball gown becoming a tunic, my carriage a pumpkin,
the dance ending, me still without a prince.

I feel the fear course through my veins as I face
a beast, a man, a war, a life-changing challenge,
a never-ending test.

I feel my jaw open and attempt words to give my name,
only to have no sound, no inkling of a word,
escape my lips, so I sit and stare, dumbfounded.

But then I feel elated as my prince brings me my glass slipper,
as the fallen rose restores itself,
as my voice returns,
as my true love kisses me alive.

I understood them, I felt them, but them I did not become.



I understand the green envy of needing to be included,
and the longing for eternal youth
and the need for power, control, understanding,
and the longing for someone to love.

I feel the green fire rise behind me,
scorching my skin in rage,
my body temperature rising because mine he should be.

I feel the pang of pain within my heart at my reflection,
the young babe I once was in my daughters features,
wishing I could go back to those days of beauty.

I feel the horror of having to be someone I'm not,
isolating myself from the world,
wishing I could just fit in.

I feel the patronizing looks burdened upon me,
my only friends in the entire world, abandon me in a second
when all I really want is to be loved.

But then I feel hatred as the King and Queen still rule,
as the beauty I once was becomes happy, leaving me behind,
as the beast within me rears up its foul head,
as the only want I have ever had will never be.

I understood them, I felt them, but them I did not become.



I understand waiting on the sidelines,
and watching others live the lives I have dreamed of,
and wishing I could escape the shell I was born into,
and never having the fairytale ending.

I feel the lonliness,
the plainness,
the average-ness of my being.
I am nothing special, and I never will be.

I sit on the sidelines,
my hair the color of dirt,
my skin like the clay of the earth.

I watch with a cautious, envious eye:
brown, nothing special, average.

I wear a plain peasant gown,
the same as the rest of my kind,
nothing special, nothing exceptional.

I have no good faeries,
no fairy godmother,
no magical dishware,
no talking sea creatures.

I have no happy ending.

I understand her and I feel her.

I am her.