PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Once upon a time, there were two perfect princesses who never smiled. Tragically perfect, beautifully flawed. They lived life in the shadows. Never sleeping, but never awake.



One, ambitious and naïve. Leaving the safety before she was ready. Tiptoes through a dark forest.



The other locked away. Lost in a tower awaiting her perfect prince to release her

with his perfect kiss.



They are not so different, you know. Scared, alone and lost. The evil lurking in the darkness of light. Both victims of tragedy trying to find a way out.



One of those princesses was a ballerina who lived far from the world, in a garden with her perfect family of perfect dancers.



But she never wanted to dance.



She wasn’t made for dancing. She wasn’t graceful like her sister. Her feet were awkward. Her body too heavy, she wasn’t a swan.



The ballerina would just sit on the windowsill, watching the world pass by. Always silent. Everything was silent, except for the soft tapping of her sisters feet as they’d hit the floor and her parents quiet applause as they watched this poetry of the body.



At night, the ballerina would cry, because no one saw her. She was alone in her pale pink vintage lace. Sometimes her mother would braid her hair with baby’s breath, she felt alive then, “One day, you’ll be a dancer too,” her mother would say, “and you’ll be beautiful and perfect like your sister. Nothing will ever hurt you. You won’t cry and you’ll always smile.”



“Promise?” whispered the ballerina.



Her mother laughed and gently stroked her hair. “Promise”



But she never wanted to dance.



It was always the same, the ballerina sitting on the windowsill like a cat, letting the sun warm her face. Barely breathing, so quiet, she never wanted to be seen.  She would imagine leaving. It was her fantasy to see beyond the garden.



“It must be more beautiful than anything the Heaven’s can make,” she thought.



She was certain it was.



She looked out the window. Then she looked at her family, her sister dancing and her mother and father drinking tea from delicate empty teacups. She looked back out the window. She was going to leave today. Her heart jumped at the thought, her eyes began to flame, and she was leaving. And she never wanted to look back.



She kissed her mother and father goodbye and slowly walked out the door. Dreaming of her new life, “How beautiful” the ballerina sighed.



She walked along, picking wild flowers, “How ugly” her sister would say when she brought them home with her. “Roses are flowers, those are weeds.” Her sister would hand her the roses, they reminded her of blood, how soft and warm they were and how red against her pale fingers. She never liked red roses, but white roses. She always thought white roses had to be angel kisses. They were so pure, innocent. They were what she wanted to be, but it seemed so wrong to pick something so lovely. She thought of how greedy it would be. To pull it from its home and keep it forever just so she could admire it until it withered and was tossed away. Nothing so beautiful should ever be thrown away.



The ballerina felt a chill on her skin, it had gotten darken, she looked up and found herself somewhere she had never seen. Her heart began to race. She was in a forest, the tree branches were like twisting arms reaching out and clawing at her flesh.



The ballerina could hear the agonizing cough of a woman. Screams and moans echoed in ears. She could hear them whisper about her. She did not belong. She felt their stares. They said such things her ears never heard words like these before.



The dark creatures and their menacing laughter, cries of pain, the ballerina looked into the eyes of one figure, she was dead. At least her eyes were.  



She had never seen death before. She had never smelt disease.



The ballerina had heard tells of woods such as these before. Her mother would tell her stories of the outside when she would ask about leaving.



“Some places are beautiful,” her mother would say, “some places you can lie on the beach all day watching the waves crash on the shore. Drink pretty girly drinks with umbrellas and let the ice drip down your hands. You don’t care about anything, you just, you just are.”



“Can you fall in love?” The ballerina asked.



Her mother would always sigh, “Yes, people fall in love. However, some people are not made for love. Besides, you don’t need love. You have me and your father.”



“But”—the ballerina started



“But your sister is love. You see it in the way she dances. She was made for love, her hands, her face. Everything. All of it is love.”



“And me?”



“Some people aren’t made for love.” And her mother left, closing the door. The ballerina alone in the dark bleeding tears from her hollowed chest.



“Are you lost little girl?” a brusque voice hissed



The ballerina said nothing, her eyes wide in fright.



“This isn’t a place for a little girl like you.” He said with a smile.



He laughed and coughed. His breath smelled like rotting flesh, it was like death. He lit up a cigarette, blowing the smoke in her face.



“You are such a pretty little girl”



She could feel his sweat as he moved closer to her, he grinned, and his sharp yellow teeth reminded her of amber. She backed away, her heart pounding like a war drum. Her little ballet shoes slipping on the moist, ground. He touched her shoulder with his rough hand. The ballerina whimpered. The wolf moved his way towards her. She wanted to run, but her legs would not work. She did not know where she was, she was lost. She was weak and he was strong.



He licked his lips and leaned in “You should have stayed home,” hissing, “Little girl, you should have stayed home”



She wanted to be home, her mother braiding baby’s breath into her hair. Her sister dancing with her father silently smiling. His perfect dancing family.



But she never wanted to dance.



The wolf had her in his grip. She felt his clawing digging into her flesh. He kissed at her mouth, the smell, the death, the metallic taste of blood in her mouth. He cackled as the ballerina tried not to cry. The wolf tore her apart, her body, her rose. Pulled her away, she was gone. She savagely took her life for his own pleasure, his own desires. He looked at her body, still warm. So pale. He left, and that was it. He was done. She was gone.



“What a pity” an old woman said, looking down at the bloodied body.



“She was quite pretty” said another



They picked up her body, and threw her away.



“Is that a smile?” the old woman asked



Slightly disgusted and slightly entranced, “why, yes, I think it is.”





The other princess was a raven-haired beauty with eyes like water. Her eyes held the pain of the world. She would ride on the bus alone, staring out the window. Never looking at anyone. She did not want to see people. She would rather stare at the stars. She’d dream about making herself a crown of foil. She would wear it as if it was beautiful. She would not care if people thought it was nothing. She would feel beautiful. She’d look into no one’s eyes. They can stare down, but she would rather look into the sky, the stars, so beautiful. She missed them sometimes. When she was younger, she would see them and wonder about time, how the let she was seeing was thousands of years old and if maybe someone was looking at that star thousands of years ago, did they think it was beautiful? Did they see something shimmer like her? Did they dream of leaving and becoming someone new? She had given up a lot. She had stopped trying, stopped believing. Was that when the stars went away?



While she was riveted in the frivolous, hollow desires, all the stars faded.



She is going to bring them back.



The bus stopped, her thoughts came back to her. She walked slowly to the elevator, the building guarded by a dragon. She could never leave this place. Not until she found her love. Everyday she’d ride the elevator. Waiting, holding her heart in her hands.



“He has to come today” Her mind raced. How would she know? Would she just know? Would he know? Sighing deeply she closed her eyes, and there he was. Her prince, she felt him in her bones, his warmth, and sadness blending with hers.



She opened her eyes and found herself alone. Her body sank.



More people piled on, she could see their thoughts. They most “normal” of people had such vile, revolting fantasies. She could see all their darkness and nothing was beautiful.



Sometimes the pain would be too much and she’d feel the vomit rise in her throat.



Then he walked on.



Her dream, her prince coming to rescue her, and he was perfect.



His eyes danced and hands were like glass. He was hers. Smiling shyly, he looked at her making her vulnerable and safe at the same time. She wanted him more than air.



She dreamed of this moment. She would look at him and think to herself, “pretty things never made me smile, but you did. You are more beautiful than you want me to believe. You walk above me with those clouds on your feet. Nothing I could do could ever reach you; you were past the heavens, past my eyes. I’d dream though, I’d dream of you with my eyes open. I’d dream of catching a glimpse of your eyes into mine. Of giving you the sea and my heart, I want so much to love you and you to love me. Dreaming with my eyes open, taking every image, every whisper, making it yours, I’d write out these conversations, confessing my love. All I did was hope someday you’d say the same; I’d tell you were my muse, my inspiration. You’d smile and say ‘I loved you more than the oceans or the stars in the night sky. My love, more beautiful than the sun.”



However, he was gone. She watched him walk right out the door, out of her life and she never said a word.



She’d write out these conversations and burn each note one by one, holding on until her fingers raged.



She’d write out these confessions, everyday the dreams more wild, so unreachable.



She was alone again, with the thoughts of strangers invading, molesting her mind.



She was alone, making all these confessions real. This dream, this pretend world of wild flowers, it is starting to fade. Everything is nothing. And nothing is more beautiful than anything could ever be.



And there was always another day. Tomorrow was her day.



She waited for him, refusing to blink. She wanted him to come for her with his dancing eyes and perfect smile.



He came, his smile broke her heart, and it was different. Less sincere than before.



He leaned closer to her, his breathe was like fire on her neck. He smelled like heavy, stale cologne. The princess clinched her eyes so tight; she did not want to see him. He could not save her; no one could ever save her. She would be sleeping with her eyes open forever, scared of seeing what was in the light.



He kissed her, softly on the mouth, holding her waist, pulling her in. And for a moment, she was gone, she was lost, scared with blood running down her pale body, she felt the death, disease, pain, all of it filling her body at once, she was the ballerina, her hair in knots with babies breath.



She slapped him hard across the face, leaving a stinging red mark on his cheek, and a scalding look in his eyes. He walked away from her, forever.



She watched him, her eyes open taking everything in. He was gone.



Alone, never sleeping but never awake.



She smiled



The ballerina and the beautiful princess were two victims of life and of needs. The world destroyed them, took them away, hidden in the shadows. They wait for nothing and nothing is beautiful.