Memories wrapped around clots and strands

Of hair oft described as gold, by those forgetting

Its bearer led a life

Best described as wing-clipped.

 

Thigh-length, some days shining, others matted

Rivers of tarnished split-end metal

That tugged at the pages

Of caged books.

 

She saw the heroes and the villains meld in her mind,

Left with little entertainment in her own desolation

Of polite smiles and downward glances

Filling the days with drops of sedating consistency.

 

She was never told that being the money-guzzling, murderous thief

Was an option for her-

Doll-dressed heroines saved the day effortlessly,

Their flawless attributes scrawled across tidy pages.

 

She had nothing vile to say of this,

Nothing wrong could she find

With honor, valor, beauty and grace-

But to believe she could do no wrong

Was a lie of its own measure.

 

Perfection, she thought, was not the problem.

Perfection, she thought, was not attainable.

And this was the problem.