Iron Maiden

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.

First Kiss

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…