Jessica Lange

..

Girl,
I
can
re
-late.
I,
too,
have
loved
a
beast.
I have
been my own American horror
story, held my gory heart in
helpless hand. You want a
hero to be the one to leap the
tall buildings; you want a man
who says hello before he seizes
you up and runs. You want to
have a choice in the matter. You
want to be the pilot of one of the
planes, saving yourself. Some
-times you even want to be the
monster. You at least want to
be wearing yoga pants and run
-ning shoes for a quick getaway,
instead of ridiculous scraps of
strapless dress. You want to
not fall in love with your captor.
You want to tell your heart to
run, stupid, run, even if every
-thing you are spills out the top
of your frock. You want to lock
yourself in some high (not Eiffel)
tower and say na-na-na-na-na
to the planes and the missed
trains and the breeze, and all
the beasts who thought they
could own you. You want to
groan deep, allow the giant ape
who lives in your own caged
chest to rest for once, having
said her piece. You want to un
-lace your corset and create your
own stir. What you get instead
is a face full of fur.

..

Written for Poetic Asides, Day 27.