When the Princess Turned Into a Witch

80

you sing me songs
of praise
like a choral in sistine church every first day of the week.

you speak to me
a thousand pleasant,
humble prayers
to find a lost child that's supposedly me.

you ask me a thousand times
when will i ever believe in every single word you uttered.
to every commendations,
to every pretty little intentions that comes out of your mouth.

and all I can answer is "not here. not now."

- exhausting, isn't it?