Everything and nothing made me royalty.
My art of painting stories
of the princess and the frog.
I was everything:
blooming, flowering, fragrant, and bursting
with the colors of a Mexican peasant girl
who climbed out of her cage of pain.
And I was nothing:
the scalpel's blade hacking away at my brittle bones.
The blood seeping, the skin pulling my stitches apart
like a too tight corset.
A crown of thorns laid upon my frowny brow,
I became the posterchild for how to survive
what was not survivable.
And you, associating with artists of renown
made little time for me
while I only wanted it all.
Photographs show you looking away
while I stared with hopeless longing
as if an invisible spotlight
creating a halo was shining down
illuminating only you.
When you did see me,
my heart stopped pounding
my blood stopped coursing
and a smile that began in my frigid toes
streaked up through my body
and shot out of my head like bolts of lightning.
Inevitably someone would remark,
"I don't know what she sees in him."
Because all they could see was a frog
and not my prince.
It was not until the last curtain fell
that I realized my own kiss
had made you beautiful to me.
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