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Poem

It's not like a rush of waves
Like I've read in those books
The innocent idyllic lies
Of fountain wishes and 
Written dreams and 
Patriarchal fantasies
All in illustration
Illusions? Delusions?
All the same

Damsels, dragons, the dammed,
Doesn't feel too far from truth,
Be it written in thousands of pages
before now, in this moment 
Knights, nights, party lights
Why wish for saviours when it's now
That my story should start?
Should it? Could it?
Could the masculine energy cope with my defiance
While the moths feast on the dresses
That would sexualise not humanise
The flesh and blood I wear,
It's mine to share

Feeling disconnected from reality
Yet those delusional illustrations
In page after page
Etched in my brain
Make no sense when that glass reflects
The shell and defence I wear 
Day in and out
Who am I protecting
I'm only hurting myself

Is it the fantasy of me
The idea I dream for myself
No rainbows to arch over me
Lack of godmothers who turn up 
When we want to please a man 
To show who we 'really are'
And paint that picture 
We dreamt about as children

I am hurting, I have no energy
To paint, to draw, to wait 
To dream, to please

I chose me, I have no story
And I hope I disappoint the ideals
That were pathed for many before me

I'll make noise, I'll defy those fictions
That is not me, shan't be me
I chose to be a sparkler 

No tiara.

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