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i am sick and tired

of california.

year after year, the same old brittle story

passed down from generation to generation

to the point of breaking.

i went to california like they told me so

i could adorn myself with fame.

four months in and the only thing adorning me:

a dress thinner than spiderwebs,

creeping further up my pillar-like legs

each and every day.

the web tangled me; the spiders

came at me, ready to bite.

i lost courage,


threw the dress over my head and ran.


now i have nothing left but an 80’s tiara,

jeweled. my niece told me she saw the same gems

in the dollar store.

perhaps she is lying, out of envy.

she has told me before, in her little, birdlike voice,

i want to be a princess, too.

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