Through the Iron Maiden’s bars
I spy a fairyland, a place
where peace grows, seeded row by row
with roots of safety, soil of grace.
But Iron Maiden bids me stay,
she bars the path to enter in;
whispers how I don’t belong,
hints at defect deep within
so here I stop, with longing gaze,
aching for the scene I spy,
wanting Eden’s leafy rest,
believing Iron Maiden’s lie.
No Botox here.
Braces weren’t in the cards.
Scoliosis made sure you couldn’t walk with a stack of books on your head,
so your gait is – awkward. Mincing.
You never had the time or inclination to perm, straighten, tint, dye, crimp, or highlight.
You always dreamed of being loved by a handsome Prince
who would sweep you off your calloused feet
and love you for who you were.
You hadn’t reckoned on
being compared to the Kardashians,
competing with the pin-ups,
playing second-fiddle to an air-brushed myth.
So you settle for a frog prince,
warts and all,
and wait, alone,
night after night,
for your first kiss…
Meanwhile, Melody Muses... 