Growing Up Is Voluntary

i was fifteen the first time a boy told me i had the grace of snow white i was fifteen the first time he told me i had the fierceness of merida i was fifteen when he told me i was as kind as cinderella fifteen was the age of tapering imagination, tattered ball gowns, and rotting pumpkin carriages fifteen was the dawn of paper mache crowns torn to shreds when you became too old for disneyland fifteen was lonely and yea maybe that was because fairy godmothers couldn’t wipe away bad GPA’s and unfinished college resumes but it was also because i couldn’t have a prince charming if my ending wasn’t happy fifteen was the year i needed belle’s love of books more than i needed merida’s courage or jasmine’s fire fifteen was the year i needed anna’s forgiveness and elsa’s hope fifteen was the year i spent locked in the tower hoping someone would let me out even though i had the key resting in my palm fifteen was the year i gave up and i stopped believing in happy endings because what was happy always ended but no one really noticed that i had shut them out like elsa and that i was hiding my insecurities behind bloody ballet shoes and bruises and i know that doesnt seem like much but it was one two three pairs and four five six blood stains on satin before i set down the mop and dusted off my dress i was fifteen when i stopped getting older i was fifteen when disney became home again and i was fifteen the first time a boy told me i was just as adventurous as jasmine i was fifteen the first time he told me my eyes held rapunzel’s wonder i was fifteen when he told me i had belles love of books and i was fifteen the first time i believed him