Rapunzel

She sits by an open window. The rusty screen doesn't stop a winter chilled wind from slipping through. The trees below are holding a golden brown - the color of marshmellows in the campfire right before they burst into flames and turn a charcoal black. This moment is peaceful and delicious. It smells like sweet honey and antiquity, echoing with the sounds of waves as tires speed across wet cement. 

And then the front door slams shut, it's caste iron decoration resonating like the bars of a prison cell. There is only one grey cloud in the clear, cold blue sky, and it bleeds disaster. She is clawing the walls for a way out, but it only succeeds in creating a scratchy throat. As her heart sinks lower into her stomach, she brushes her hair, ripping knots in half with her comb's teeth, and makes her way down the creaking stairs. 

It is a practice she commands with composure and an adolescent grace. Waiting for the day her hair will be long enough to tickle the heads of people passing down below. Her responsibilities are conquered by fairytale dreams., but one day she will be strong enough to hold her burdens like a braid of hair. They will trail behind her and they will be dead useless weight until she decides to cut them loose, but starry eyed wishes of Princes and kisses keep them affectionately attached to her.