She calls herself
A damsel in distress.
People don’t find it worth gazing.
Say it doesn’t sound empowering enough
But she knows that it is her reality for now
And she’s had her share of running
So let’s accept.
There is nothing modest
In silently crying to bed.
As of today, her sobs are louder
And cheers more humble,
She perfectly misfits in the
Dress she curated for herself.
Her ankle-length insecurities
Expose her vulnerabilities
Every now and then.
And the mess she made in the kitchen,
Is nothing compared to herself.
But above all,
she is a damsel in distress
but not another damsel in distress
Waiting to be saved
by someone else.
She’s done being the opening scene of many plays
But the resolution of none.