Pale Princess

My life is a waiting room.
I am pastel passivity personified.
An object, passing time, hoping
to be noticed just enough, in the right way,
by the right man. Because it must always
be a man in this vanilla narrative.

My power lies deep within.
It is as easy to miss as a pale slice
of moon in the cool draught of daylight.
I am covered, cross-legged, curved
lips closed, eyes lowered. Just a touch
of femininity revealed in the point of a shoe,
an inch of ankle, the nape of a neck.

My self is masked. No suggestion
of my turbulent inner world;
it is as well hidden as the histrionics
of an Austen heroine. Unthreatening,
vapid, my powdery puffs of thought
appear in pallid pinks and violets.

My saviour arrives. I am swept
off my feet, smothered in sickly sweet
romance, my delicate bone structure
admired, fearful trembling soothed.
Book hidden behind frivolous magazine
because no-one likes a heroine with brains,
even in the most modern of fairy tales.