One sip
to poison a prince,
his teeth sunk
into forbidden fruit,
while one-true-love stands
waiting,
patient,
the perfect good girl
all fairy-tales and smiles,
alone.
Drinks her own potion,
steps free
of skin
crafted from paperbound
volumes brittle with age.
Breathes.
Finally.
Screams.
Little girls are taught that boys being boys,
will torment to show their love.
Big girls will claim that love makes up
for bruises,
broken bones and split lips.
I am lucky not to have known that sort of that love.
I’ve never been struck
by someone claiming their heart beats for me
while echoing the beating with their fists.
When it happens to a man
they are reduced to the weaker sex,
because it’s bad enough when a woman
doesn’t have the balls to leave.
Without experiencing the same thing
I can’t say for certain,
but I’ve carried enough fear with me
to understand what it is to cling
to the things we know.
Privileged,
is a tricky word to stick
when most of us hide
the things dragging us down.
Good ideas never really come all at once.
Your lightbulb moment
is more like the switch on a kettle
pinging to off when the water finally comes
to a full boil.
The stillness can be mistaken for suddenness,
but clarity
takes longer to steep.
No one explained that best before
was subjective at best.
Instead they suggested
that you were lucky to find a man
willing to settle for spoiled produce
so close to the sell by date.
Did it occur to you
the rot might be them?
They told me you were hard to puzzle out,
a riddle wrapped in a conundrum.
Like an onion, I would have to peel back the layers
to find what you really were beneath.
In reality,
your smile was so open,
I walked in uninvited.
Carol J Forrester - Writing and Works 
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