by: Clarissa Sherine Widjaja,16

Oh dear child,

Tales you were told as a young soul. 

Your eyes glint with the light of a youthful fire. 

Your cheeks they ache and they tire, 

As the warmth of your laugh fills the room, 

As you were told tales I was told when I was a young soul.

Tales of a young woman who was the fairest of them all,

Porcelain skin, her lips of wine, 

A mirror that enslaved a witch with an eternity of envy and tragedy.

“was she beautiful?”

Oh yes. The witch took the fall,

 and she became the fairest of them all!

I would say.

A young damsel in a tower locked far away, with hair the color of molten gold,

A witch who held the key. Her hair white, and her face creased with the gravity of age.

“was she beautiful?”

Oh yes. The girl was the most beautiful of her land!

Thank goodness, the witch tumbled to the sand!

I would say.

Another tale, of a young, fair maiden imprisoned,

By sisters, like that of witches. 

Her body of an hourglass, 

Time ticks for her prince to find who would fit the slipper. 

“was she beautiful?”

Oh yes. The prince was enamoured with her glamour,

And now she lives in a grand manor!

I would say.

Now you look at yourself.

The gravity of age creases your face.

Your hair the colour of snow,

Your body defeated by age’s pace.

You, enslaved by a mirror through envy and tragedy.

It whispers, words that diminish that light that I once saw.

Tells you tales that you did not want to hear now.

Tales you were told as a young soul.

They tell you, that you will never have porcelain skin. 

That you will never have lips of wine,

Hair of molten gold,

A body of an hourglass…

No longer;


No longer.

A witch you are now, you thought.

For yonder. 

And I think to myself,

the woes of you and others alike.

That the tales we tell, 

A nurturer of insecurity?

As each and everyone of you, children,

Step into maturity?

And I regret,

That these were the tales you were told as a young soul,


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