You ever believe for long enough that safe passage is possible
that you realize
this tower you are entombed in—
you brought every brick to this field.
You crawled on your trusting knees and dripped woolen sweat, hardened yourself against sleep
to build it,
to keep the Frankenstein in you contained.
The problem is not that he doesn’t love us or that we are unlovable.
The problem is you are rancid with hate.
You won’t tongue your cavernous anger and you won’t bleed your tight-laced screams,
then you wonder why windmills peel away from you
when it is quiet enough for the voices to start in.
Well, I can’t stop you from being crazy and I can’t stop you from being small
and I can’t remember the last time being in this body with me made you happy,
but the clippers are in my hand now and here is what I can do
—because all freaks and princesses need a sense of control—
I can sit your ass down on this fucking chair and mark you somehow,
make my existence in your mind impossible to ignore.
For your own salvation, may all your worst fears come true.
There is no prince.
There is no witch.
You are damaged—
and No One looks out for the crazy bitch.
You are alone, you will die alone, and also,

you look like something a little bit broken.
Princess, if you can’t shut the voices up, let them know—
There is room in their prophecies for your own power.