By Tryniti Thresher

The real world says I don't know how to be a "real girl".
That I own no purpose beyond escaping 
narcissistic hands dangling me about,
and the twisted tiara of servitude
laced with a taste of Stockholm Syndrome.

Pulling at strings I jerk myself through life
one wooden step at a time.
I never got a fairy godmother
and magic died when I reached ten.
The world's a trap I'm still trying to escape,
locked in that first wicked fable cage. 

Reality clicks on to the channel of a disenchanted life 
of a damsel who carries her distress inside
cursed with princes uncharming who morph into beasts
who dance through my defenses in the dark
and songless candlesticks that only ever burn.

My body uncinched, flows better 
into loose pants and large shirts.
Unyielding ballgown fantasies and heels 
are for balanced women with upturned legs 
trained to stand dizzying heights of societal expectation.

No diamond cut fairy-tale princess here,
fated to fall to the first pretty boy with lust-licked lips.
Disbelief in ever afters leaves me clinging
to a body barely under my own control.

Hoping for some miraculous event 
that will finally fuse my pieces together,
join me joyfully with my own skin,
and cut the strings from my limbs 
so that I might stretch out;
and discover how to move again.

A writer since she could hold a pen, Tryniti Thresher creates lyrics, poems, guides, novellas, and the occasional love notes for her partner.

With juniper-colored hair and a penchant for gaming, this nerdy Pet Nutrition Specialist in her mid-thirties currently resides in Washington state alongside her two bunnies, an adorable nine-pound Schnorkie, and one black pearl chinchilla. 

If you would like to talk, send her your favorite movie quote, science factoid, or something else to geek out over, via Instagram (@Trynitis_Edge)!


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