Rapunzel (a poem)

    My life unfolds in a small room:

• 1 desk and chair by the door
• 1 window
• 1 cot-like bed
• 1 bookshelf
• 1 fan
• 1 closet

This room is my prison.

It makes me 

a lethargic 

caged 

animal, 

like the lion at the zoo who just sleeps 

stretched out in the sun.

It stifles 

my desire to scream 

and knock down 

one of the walls. 

It turns my rage

to despondent tears.

It turns my snark 

to soft meekness 

that wraps itself in sleep for self-preservation

till soon I stop using all my room’s small space

and just curl up

on my bed.

And soon this cell becomes a haven 

against the scary sprawling world too big

for a tired mind like mine 

to navigate.

It gives me rest when I am weary.

It hides my tears from prying eyes.

It lets me think my thoughts uninterrupted.

I’m the queen 

of this place. 

It’s mine to use 

as I see fit.

Nothing can be lost, and I cannot be lost in space so small.

In my prison,

I am free.

But I know it’s not real freedom.

It’s a mockery of me. 

Real freedom would be strolling in the 

sunlit afternoon,

laughing with newfound friends at the waterfall,

hiking all day, and 

dancing late 

into the night,

entering a place when I want to enter

and leaving when I want to leave. 

My prison is sadistic, 

but this poor turtle has no better shell.

It’s either this or lie 

exposed 

and drained and vulnerable

in the middle of a 

highway.

So I hear the shouts and laughter from my window,

keep the window open, breathe 

the summer air.

But I stay inside

and snuggle 

deeper in

my blankets,

and burrow 

deeper in

myself,

and whither 

away 

a little 

more.