Instinct

Trapped in a fatal instinct.

I carry an ideal of a prince,

When I find someone of those qualities 

I reach out.

I reach out in desperation for that kindness.

But my hand lowers as I take in the view,

between the Prince and I,

a field.

A field of broken glass

and the unruly truth 

that I will bleed out

before ever reaching him.

I venture a few anchored steps forward,

feeling the glass cut into my skin

but again, I will bleed out.

So I stay behind the field of glass,

hand pressed against a window.

I remain in my dark corner,

shrouded in monsters,

because monsters make sense.

The prince, he is a silly ideal,

But the Monsters aren't.

The monsters let me breath easy

and though coated in violence

I feel safe.

It's hard to explain why,

but I suppose it's rather simple,

The kind ideal of that Prince is silly and terrifying,

but the monsters aren't,

because the monsters make sense.

Reviews

[Emily B]

when you've only ever known monsters, princes can be frightening

I understand this much too well