I Did Not Eat an Apple | Sabrina Santa Clara

It is the same old story,
and according to my friends, not specific to me.

Four weeks.
Four weeks and the heavy burden of your diagnosis,
a whole intimacy built out of messages
and never once supported by breath or touch,
and already the small candle of assumption
rides the paper lantern
far, far into the deep night sky.

Already you have cast me:
lifeless without my man,
the end all, be all.
How can I not be insulted
to be so misread,
so unseen?

I want a new story.
No Andromeda seeking Perseus.
No Sita helpless without Rama.
No Snow White, Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella, Rapunzel.

I did not eat an apple, shortly after applying my makeup perfectly,
so that I could lie in a white silk tufted coffin
looking gracefully pale and delicate
while I awaited the perfect prince
to come kiss my ruby red lips
and save me from the stone cold corpse-like existence
I had before his arrival.

I am not trapped in a high tower,
entombed in a cold brick room,
with nothing to do but let my hair grow luxuriously long
so some prince can yank my neck
as he climbs my golden locks
to rescue me from the loneliness and immobility of my life.

I want a new story.
One where no one has to be rescued
and no one has to carry the rescue.

This one has far outlived its usefulness.
It is old and tired,
and it is time to tuck it into bed,
lay it out gracefully pale and delicate,
and seal it permanently
within the coffin of sleep.