A Prince Is To The Heir
I was a princess, looking for armor
The armor father never let me touch, but to which I
Needed, facing others and my mother.
But I must blend in with grace, no matter how much the
true bleeding of my colors have shown.
I throw my corset in the laundry rack, my naked chest resting against
the silk, sighing in relief.
The cupping of my breasts is gone, the tight tucking,
The uncomfortable feeling being similar as to when
a
man
tries to touch
my exposed skin.
A prince is now to become a king, but I tell him to let me rule
He simply shakes his head, for that man tries to cup my cheek,
but all I feel is
the cool feeling of the mirror on my knuckles.
I curtsy to the prince, as he does with
me.
I would rather be anywhere but here, sizing my torso,
tightening my waist to bring my hidden hips out, cutting my skin to slivers until they’ve dug into my bone.
All the blushing dressers and tailors tell me what an image I am, and I nod my head.
What an image I am.
Well if it makes all the poised and delicate lips joyful, then I must be modeled and shaped perfectly just for them