[Image from Pinterest]
[Inspired by Fait’s “Koto”:]
They craved a story, every time,
like children reaching up their arms for mummy,
begging that the tale not end – “Not that one, no,
the one with the heroic prince“. What could she do
but whisper yarns to widen eyes,
make hearts bleed to keep her in their towers.
All books have an ending, however.
Truth was she could only craft novellas,
sometimes a penny dreadful,
sometimes simply an elongated piece of verse.
Didn’t matter, the XY kids were so diverse
she had fodder for future fabrication
for quite a while to come.
Or so she’d thought until the date just done.
The usual start: “Who are you?“; “Tell me your past.”
Couldn’t remember what she’d said last
time, to that other lost cause. But this one,
he didn’t seem a child that hungered for false
tales to make him believe himself a man.
He wanted her, the whole strong, scary truth of her.
And she was tongue-tied, unused to the reveal.
She was naked in his gaze, a practiced moth pinned
to the observation board of his eyes.
Heart fluttered: time to peel off the camouflage, habitual disguise.
[Copyright © N R Nolan 2016]