I’d spend hours in the garden, twisting and turning stems every which way, attempting feebly to make them fit together between my lanky limbs. I used to sing the same song again and again, whispering sweet nothings to myself amongst the deep leaves.
Hoping one day, maybe, my prince would come, or some day, maybe, everyone would feebly fall at my feet: nymph princess amongst magnificent skies.
Untroubled, untouched, silver serpents slithering down my neck. And if only others could help me at dawn with a robe, I’d be better next time.
I’d be good.