Rapunzel Has No Hair

There's a saying that inside every cynic is a disappointed idealist. A once upon a time romantic who more often than not had her dreams shattered like shards of glass at her fingertips, leaving her scared and staring into her distorted mirrored image projected in front of her.

You live with longing. For so long, wanting, waiting, hoping. Wanting the next time to be real, be better than the last. For the scars to make you stronger and the pain to be forgotten, but it happens again. You get a glimpse really of what that memory felt like, that shattered dream, and before you can reach your hand out to touch it, you drop it and run away.

Cast blame hither and yon at others, build walls around you like you're Rapunzel in a tower, only you have no lovely locks to let down. No guard to relinquish. You become so accustomed to your tower, your own isle of solitude, your cynicism and bitterness are comforting now, old friends. They don't hurt you, they hurt others, but you alas are safe. No one can touch you where you are.

You become the ungettable get. Close enough but still far enough away. And you know it isn't right, you can feel it. You talk yourself into things you know aren't real for the sake of it, because it seems like it should be so, and then sabotage them all again because you know its again time to run.

So you closet yourself in your secrets, in your actual need for what you long for. Calloused exterior hiding your inner romantic. It’s safer that way. You try to remain untouchable. But...

You're finding yourself nearing the glass again. Ever fearful, you try to pull away, but the force is like the tide, uncontrollable and strong, yet calming and serene. A paradox.

And so you're secret's out, your humbled self, old fashioned and feminine, lurking under the hardnosed surface of independence. Wanting, waiting, wishing to be swept off her feet. Waiting for those locks to grow. Be saved from that tower built up brick by brick.

And maybe brick by brick it will come down, or maybe with leaps and bounds it will be scaled. With magic or with memories. With careless effort of calculated precision. Or maybe it won't.

But I'll be in it, waiting.