I expected life to be like the stories
read in books and seen on TV screens.

There had to be something more
than a cul-de-sac,
a seven hour school day.

I waited patiently knowing one day
my stories would foster me as their own:
a heroine.
The bravest in the land.
The most coveted beauty.
The defender of good.
The daughter of adventure.

My stories abandoned me.

My window was open, yet Peter Pan never came.
On my eleventh birthday, my owl flew astray.
The back of my wardrobe, solid oak.
The one ring to rule them all, only plastic.
I am a child of mortals, not gods.