When the fuck is my prince going to come?
Disney sold me the lie early,
young enough to swallow it whole—
a man will rise out of the woodwork
and save your ass.
Why does a girl always have to play
the damsel?
Why?
So I say fuck it.
I'll get myself out of trouble
my own way —
a low-cut shirt for the cute cop,
playing dumb for the man
who'll change the tire
I already know how to change.
Screw the princess bullshit,
the good rescue,
the man on the white horse.
I've done fine without arms
scooping me up,
without being whisked away
to who-knows-where.
Sure— I delayed some things.
School. Bills. Eating, some months.
But I made it this far
alone.
So screw the knight, the shine on his armour,
the limo, the umbrella up the fire escape,
even the horse.
I've got breasts for an advantage
and I'm not afraid to use them.
Who says you kiss a lot of frogs
to find the one?
Same as saying you suck a dick
to get ahead.
I'm all for female power—
but I draw the line at fellatio.
God knows my jaw's
already had enough.
I remember writing this in 2011. After I watched Pretty Woman for like the tenth time and got mad at it. Here I was a 28-year-old woman still fantasizing about being saved. I think we all want that in a way. Or maybe that was me then.
Wanting someone who wants us enough to be willing to react and take charge. Like what Richard Gere does in the movie. He saves her. Do they live happily ever after? I doubt it. But the thought is nice. Even if it is just a fantasy.
About the Creator
Chel Writes
I should come with warning labels.
I write here and on Substack.
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