Praise is an easy veil for danger to hide behind.
For characters who would’ve been vilified in an older generation, but are celebrated in this one.
Am I afraid to cut my hair because I won’t be pretty anymore? Yes.
You think I am a fragile thing.
My gauzy skin,
The words I speak are kind and raw—
Audible apple slices,
The plum bite of my feedback,
Berry compliments staining all my interactions.
And all you see is my garish smile—
Engulfing my whole face.
It’s hard to hear past the grin.
But sun shines over tragedies often.
Hello past my Versailles looks,
My Elizabethan curls,
My Shirley Temple mannerisms,
If your greeting travels far enough,
It will find where I am titanium.
That my anatomy is more ferocious than flesh.
When I beam, I’m also bearing my fangs— how I’ve torn through every tragedy intent on making me it’s victim.
I’m as gauzy as barbed wire,
As soft as sandpaper.
Some princesses are savages in disguise,
Their crowns are just another weapon,
The thrown is not a place to be adored but a moment to perch before all that has ever tried to break me and gloat, “Despite your most ruthless armies and soulless tactics, I am here. You came to break me only to bow before me.”