The rosebud thorns recede with a crack and rumble, a tiger withdrawing her murderous

claws. I brace myself. You crave a dramatic entrance; I can tell from the thump and then pop of

your shoulder hitting the door. You believe it to be locked, that it will take great force to open.

Why make it easy to get to the princess? This is supposed to be a feat, after all, and you’re

supposed to be a prince.

Out of breath, your feet crash against the stone ground. 

If you asked me, I would say, You went through a lot of trouble. If you had just walked

half a mile around the rosebuds, you would have found an opening in the hedge. You could have

walked right in and claimed your prize. 

You don’t bother to ask me anything. My consent is inconsequential. 

“Beautiful Princess,” you say. You do not know my name. Beautiful princesses tucked

away in towers under sleeping curses are interchangeable to princes. “I have come to rescue you,

to free you from the wicked fairy’s curse.”

I want to tell you the fairy wasn’t really, truly wicked. She was following her storyline,

just as you are. 

I try a different tactic, even though I know it’s pointless. You cannot hear me. Yet still, I

try anyway. I tell you: I don’t want to follow my storyline, dear prince, so please don’t wake me

up. You think we will have this beautiful life, you and I. That I’ll jump into your arms after you

wake me up with True Love’s Kiss. You believe in happily ever after. You’ve bought into your

own storyline. But you, my prince, are just a pawn, moving up the board one square at a time. 

You stroke my hair now, gazing at my beauty. Up close, your eyes are bloodshot. How

tired you must be, my prince. “I will take you away from all of this, I promise,” you say. “We

will be so happy, Princess.” 

I won’t be. Neither will you. You just don’t know it yet. I won’t give you an heir or

follow you around like a dog. It’s not you; it’s the idea of you. I’m not in the market for a prince.

Please just let me sleep. I’ll wake up in a hundred years when princesses have the right to vote

for their story endings. 

You hover above me now, your lips only inches from mine. Your breath is hot and putrid,

no doubt from the several day’s journey. Your creators didn’t think about your bad breath, or that

you should freshen up for your bride. Yet here I am written to be eternally youthful and

beautiful, my hair glossy and knot-free, my skin soft and dewy. 

Please, I beg one last time. Don’t wake me. 

You pucker your lips and place them on mine. Against my will, my eyes begin to flutter.

I know what happens next. And I wish with all my heart to go back to sleep.