I’m not one of those girls who

goes to the Prince’s balls

spinning glitter and shining

like the ballerina box I had as a child,

or one of those butterflies that flit

jewel bright and beautiful

down a preordained path.

I go to the midnight ball

dancing barefoot in the courtyard

when the moon is new and

the obsidian sky trembles at crystal starlight,

a furred moth spreading wings

a foundling in the darkness

that will tear the sky down.

When you gave me that broom

you didn’t know I’d learn to ride it,

so while you cut pieces away

to force your feet into those shoes

I’ll wear ankle bracelets and garden dirt,

luring the Prince become a wolf

savage and mesmerized by my siren’s call

to the vast and aching wild.