I am six years old, sitting, cross-legged, on my bed.
My small hands clutch the gold-edged pages.
I turn one, and the rustling fills up the silence.
I read of a golden-haired princess, locked in a tower,
away from the world, away from her family.
She is alone, but she is not lonely, for she has hope.
Hope that her prince will come rescue her from the witch.

And I am six years old, so I brush my hair
with one hundred strokes exactly (I counted),
and when Mom is asleep, I sneak into her bathroom
and clumsily paint my face with her makeup,
and paint not just my nails, but the whole tips of my fingers.
The smell of nail polish remover lingers in the bathroom for days.

And I am six years old, so I lock myself up
in my tower, away from the world, away from my family.
Alone, and lonely, but I still try to hope
that my prince will come rescue me from myself.

I am fourteen now, sitting, cross-legged, on the floor,
my thin fingers toying with the edges of the pages.
I turn one, and the rustling fills up the silence.
I read of a golden-haired princess, sword at her belt,
sneaking into the lair of the dragon she will slay.
She is alone, but she is not afraid, because she knows
that she is loved by her family, back home.

And I am fourteen now, so I braid my hair,
and tuck a pencil behind my ear,
and stride out into the world,
head held high and hands in pockets.
My backpack weighs my shoulders down with books.

And I am fourteen now, so I do my own rescuing
love my own self, and let the world love me.
Alone, but never truly lonely, because I have friends.
I have family.