Princess.

I know the words I wish to hear.

My secret side is hungry,

The flippant scores of concerts past still hang here in this hall of glory.

And it feels like trash to me,

A feast for kings spread across twelve tables with goblets of gold and finery,

But it tastes like ash to me.

Ungrateful, undeserving, spoiled, selfish,

I know what I am.

The ruffles on this dress they itch,

The ringlets in my hair too tight,

My feet yearn to touch forest floor, mud, rock, stream, dirt.

Yet here I sit, jaw clenched, fingers tapping,

Singing songs in a round in my mind,

How long will I wait to be free?

How many times will I be told I should be happy?

How many more days will I stare out this window?

Looking at my mother, how her eyes have sunken,

Her skin has paled, her lips have thinned,

Her laugh has hollowed, her smile has strained,

It could be forever, and a very long time after that.