Fri, 06/07/2013 - 17:01 -- Sherrel

There is a castle which sits on a hill,
The bricks an ominous color which fill
The inside with gloom.
Inside a one window room,
One girl with one brush,
Uses her one last nerve not to jump.

Her hands tighten on the window,
Pain from her ponytail every time it grows,
It takes all her might to stand upright,
One boulder for each shoulder,
And she wonders how long is this weight.

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!”
Her blonde locks bleach the despair
Of the classic fairytale,
No one cares about the work behind the detail.

She untangles for an hour, plucks an unruly strand,
And folds miles of unruliness in her hand,
It’s the string that binds her to this room,
Like patterns made on a loom,
Monotonous to the point of tears,
The same for years and years.

Then she hears the call,
“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let your hair fall!”

She stares at her palm, thinking carefully
Should she giggle, or respond thankfully?
Is this not what she’s been waiting for?
Is this what she’s been weighting for?
I boy beckoning her below
And somehow she’s supposed to know
To flaunt what he wants
And not say no?

She clenches a fist,
The strand trapped inside,
She gathers her head together
Still maintaining pride.

She opens drawers, looks under the bed
Causing aches besides the one on her head.
Locked away since she can remember,
Maybe forever can end here.
She handles the shears, chopping years,
Finally having nothing to fear.

She piles the miles and lets out a call
“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let your hair fall.”
Locks and locks flock to the ground,
And she’s never heard such a joyful sound.

There is a castle that sits on a hill,
The bricks a reviving color which fill,
The inside with grace.
There is one place,
With one woman, and one child so meek,
Retelling a story we rarely speak.


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741