if I disappear just a bit
into a ready-made story
(not that I could, but if)
erase enough of me that
they quit digging on
exposed nerves &
I could not be found
well, then
life would be grand
I'd drink my coffee
after dinner, curl into
the night alone to
read & sleep without
dreaming big
rinse & repeat
this is me, but
we love our big ideas
of self, flickering,
burning projections,
stories cast with us,
words written for us
but what character, then,
am I?
the ill-fated mother of
every fairy tale heroine,
only a beloved memory
a naive orphan wandering
the forest, serenading
woodland creatures
a dark sorceress,
terrifying, commanding,
bitter to the beauty of youth
the feral warrior princess
fighting for nature,
renouncing humanity
a spectral grin
teasing from the trees,
spouting mad misdirection
or, just
peaceful & small,
wanting only a smoke,
a bit of adventure &
~hopefully~
a second breakfast