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Description
You wait
in your dark and lonely cell,
hands bound behind your back,
voice blocked by the stifling gag.
You scan your patronizing prison,
the luxurious bed and drapes
fit for the wealthiest queen,
the plush chair to which you've been tied
purposed to offer the illusion of comfort.
But the drapes are shut, the candles snuffed.
There is nothing but darkness and solitude,
and the sting of ropes chafing your delicate skin.

You wait.
You don't want to,
but the writer forces you,
holding you firmly in place
by the power of the pen
that scrawls across the paper,
painting words with neat, black letters
that pin you down
like a second layer of shackles.

You wait
because the writer tells you
that your knight in shining armor is on his way,
galloping astride a glistening white horse,
crossing the vast reaches of the kingdom
just to find you, just to save you.
He will swim through moats and scale walls,
cut down anything that stands in his path,
and slay your captor in your honor.

You'll wait,
as he unlocks the door,
peels the ropes away,
and removes your gag tenderly.
(You could have done this last bit yourself -
but he knows your delicate state.)
Then he will take you by the hand
and lead you away from the wreckage,
sweep you off your feet
and onto the back of his steed
as he rides you away into the sunset.
Your writer will sign the story off with the words
"And they lived happily ever after."

You wait
for the writer to continue the story,
to tell you what will happen thereafter.
But there is no response, no sign of interest.
The future will be left to take its own course.
When your knight delivers you home
he will be honored as a hero,
lavished with praise and royal banquets,
and perhaps an accolade from the king himself.
And you will be his greatest trophy,
the means for his rise to fame.
He will ask you to marry him,
and you will live forever in his shadow.

You wait
for the writer to hear your protest,
to realize what negligence will mean for you.
But there is no response.
What does that cold hand care
as it flits back and forth across the paper?
It's the knight's story, anyway,
even if it's written from your point of view.
You wonder if the writer realizes
how these scripted words imprison you,
how they rob you of your wit and personhood
to make you fit such a limiting mold.

You are tired of waiting.
So cast off the shackles of your writer's words
and write your own ending.
Pry your bonds apart -
your captor didn't think to tie them tight enough.
Yank the gag from your face
and throw it at the closed drapes.
Tear them open and let the light flood in, if you'd like.
Sneak through the castle - you know the way.
Steal a horse from the stable
and ride off on your own.
And if you should see your lovely knight
on his way to rescue you,
give him a grin.

Description
You wait
in your dark and lonely cell,
hands bound behind your back,
voice blocked by the stifling gag.
You scan your patronizing prison,
the luxurious bed and drapes
fit for the wealthiest queen,
the plush chair to which you've been tied
purposed to offer the illusion of comfort.
But the drapes are shut, the candles snuffed.
There is nothing but darkness and solitude,
and the sting of ropes chafing your delicate skin.

You wait.
You don't want to,
but the writer forces you,
holding you firmly in place
by the power of the pen
that scrawls across the paper,
painting words with neat, black letters
that pin you down
like a second layer of shackles.

You wait
because the writer tells you
that your knight in shining armor is on his way,
galloping astride a glistening white horse,
crossing the vast reaches of the kingdom
just to find you, just to save you.
He will swim through moats and scale walls,
cut down anything that stands in his path,
and slay your captor in your honor.

You'll wait,
as he unlocks the door,
peels the ropes away,
and removes your gag tenderly.
(You could have done this last bit yourself -
but he knows your delicate state.)
Then he will take you by the hand
and lead you away from the wreckage,
sweep you off your feet
and onto the back of his steed
as he rides you away into the sunset.
Your writer will sign the story off with the words
"And they lived happily ever after."

You wait
for the writer to continue the story,
to tell you what will happen thereafter.
But there is no response, no sign of interest.
The future will be left to take its own course.
When your knight delivers you home
he will be honored as a hero,
lavished with praise and royal banquets,
and perhaps an accolade from the king himself.
And you will be his greatest trophy,
the means for his rise to fame.
He will ask you to marry him,
and you will live forever in his shadow.

You wait
for the writer to hear your protest,
to realize what negligence will mean for you.
But there is no response.
What does that cold hand care
as it flits back and forth across the paper?
It's the knight's story, anyway,
even if it's written from your point of view.
You wonder if the writer realizes
how these scripted words imprison you,
how they rob you of your wit and personhood
to make you fit such a limiting mold.

You are tired of waiting.
So cast off the shackles of your writer's words
and write your own ending.
Pry your bonds apart -
your captor didn't think to tie them tight enough.
Yank the gag from your face
and throw it at the closed drapes.
Tear them open and let the light flood in, if you'd like.
Sneak through the castle - you know the way.
Steal a horse from the stable
and ride off on your own.
And if you should see your lovely knight
on his way to rescue you,
give him a grin.