When she was born
her parents both rejoiced
and sent the invitations
winging out to all but one,
and then they waited,
breathless, for her
tale to start.
She was a child then,
too young to care about
the crystal slippers,
or the potions that
they smeared into her
golden hair to make it
grow to tower length.
But some years later,
when she caught
her mother slipping peas
beneath her satin sheets,
and found her father
thrusting glowing blades
into a granite slab,
she swapped her fine
embroidered clothing
for the tatters of
a downstairs maid,
begged a tired nag from
a too-trusting stable hand
and slipped away.
Her life too short to waste
on other people's fantasies,
she went to find her own,
instead of waiting for
some random hero to
come riding through a
strictly scripted fairy tale.