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The Heroine's Tale

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I often hide, beneath the gloom within,
And try to abstain from contact with the kin.
They sit in sequence with the rest,
Of the world – with the best.
I claw my own face away, in hopes to take,
What they hate and turn it to their type of fake.
I try on the pink sweater,
And the purple jacket that’ll surely make me look better.
It’ll drown out the blackness of my eyes,
The thickness of my thighs,
And the ugliness of my unbleached hair.
It’ll hide the – in your words – ‘gothic glare,’
Since we’re on the subject of me,
I can share the tale of my own misery,
I’ll share a secret tale of undoubted woe,
At least on my part, from my head to my toe.

It was the morning that winter was to be spring,
And the lovely birds begin to harmoniously sing,
That my mother decided I was to be,
A Miss America Teen.
Full of luscious lips,
And haughty hips,
I was to smear the lipstick in sync,
With the mascara and the perfume stink.
I couldn’t take the thought,
Of destroying my mother’s vision so vehemently sought,
To bring me from my mythological shell,
Into her dream world and my own private hell.
I did as I was told and soon found the,
Dresses didn’t fit; I just wanted her to be proud of me.
She’d smirk and frown,
As I foolishly turned in the gown,
And her friends would point and say,
“She’s not the daughter you’ve wanted, there’s no way.”
I’d hide the tears behind my eyes,
After all it’s been my clever disguise,
And rush through my room,
Back to the softening gloom.
After the women all left and the table was clean,
She’d come to my door, softly lean,
And say, “Why can’t you be,
Just like Debbie or Shirley?
Why can’t you try to be,
The perfect daughter for me?
I’ve given up my---
She’d stop right there and ask why,
I had glistening streams of tears rolling down my cheeks.
I’d turn away from her, so she could no longer see the streaks,
And I’d answer her with this, “I’m sorry my hair,
Doesn’t grow with natural flair.
I’m sorry my eyes aren’t the perfect sky blue,
And I’m mostly sorry I got stuck with a mother like you.
I’ve written stories that most would find,
A knowledgeable kind.
But do you think you take notice when I,
Reach unbelievably high,
To meet your expectations and holy judgments,
And end up at the start of your disappointments?
Do you know what a human is?
Do you know that there is such existence of my own bliss?
I no longer care to be your dream’s spitting image,
And I no longer wish to portray your visage.
I’ve got a month before our term together is done,
And soon, you’ll have your brand new canvas to reek havoc on.”
Her response, “You can say the things you do,
But do you realize that I am only here for you?
You may not see my true intent,
Is not to strip you of yourself, well, to an extent.”
“No, mother, I can’t believe what you have to say,
Because tomorrow is yet another day,
And my tears will still stain my clothes,
And you’ll simply talk with your plastic fellows.
I don’t want to be the version of me,
That you see.
I want to be the version of me,
That scares the children on the wonderful Hallows Eve,
I want to be the actor on a stage,
Not the canary-bird stuffed in a rusting cage.”





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