The scene always opens with a girl in rags

On the floor

Tired and overworked

Exhausted and sore.

The archetype who deserves so much more.

But she scrubs,

And she sags,

Dirt all over her rags,

Just passively completing her chore.

 

I don’t think we realize the subtleties they use

To create the fantasies we abuse,

To ensure they have control over the options we choose.

 

The promise of riches, status, and poise

For the price of our freedom,

they stifle the noise

With a delicate glass muzzle,

they suppress the voice

that screams:

ENOUGH.

 

Cinderella,

Dressed in yellow,

Went upstairs to kiss a fellow.

 

But she didn’t.

She had no intention to impress.

All the girl wanted was a night off and a dress.

 

But nobody cares.

She is not a person, you see

But an instruction manual.

This.

This is what a good girl has the potential to be.

Just stick a pretty face on something obedient.

 

The response is expected

I know it far too well:

“Times have changed, we’ve advanced.

We’ve given women an equal chance.”

This silly fairytale is just a story we tell.

 

But we all fail to notice,

We all remain blind

To the morsel of symbolism the girl left behind.

 

How can one argue that this story is dead

When the glass from her shoe remains intact over our head.