When I was a maiden,

I would take a nap.

My head would hit the pillow.

I'd pull the goose down up.

But I hated the stories.

Sleeping Beauty, at age 16

Pricked her finger on a spindle

And bled, and an evil queen,

Or a witch, or something,

Put a curse on her, and she slept 

Until her prince came.

Well even at age nine

I could see the writing on the wall,

But didn't understand.

Were women supposed to remain dormant

From the time they started their periods

Until the right man came along for them?

That's what the story seemed to say to me,

And made me wish that I'd been born a boy.

In bedtime stories, boys get to start out

As Pinocchio's, who were very wanted

By their creators and brought to life.

They get to aspire to be real boys,

Something every lad can do!

But it seemed to me that the girls started out as real girls,

Albeit, not so very wanted,

And became something altogether different:

Somewhere between the  princesses and the wicked queens, 

The fairy godmothers or ugly stepsisters,

Lay the inverse of Pinocchio,

The female equivalent,

The ever-reverencable porn star.

-jenn