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.