Disenchanted

Past one in the morning -
I return home;
collapse onto my bed,
swamped by the indigo folds
of my dress, my body afloat;
the sun's golden reflection
balancing like a lily
on darker water.

Kick off my heels -
find new blisters and raw skin.
I wish I'd worn my Doc Marten's.
Can't breathe in this dress -
pull the side-zipper down
a few inches and exhale.
My fingers itch for a cigarette.

Pull the pins from my hair -
unaccustomed to wearing it up
so elegantly. The curls break free,
bounce around my shoulders,
catch the light from my lamp.

A squeal of delight!
My mother arrives in her dressing gown,
announces that she has never seen me
looking so beautiful as I do now;
mascara bruises cloud my cheeks - red eyes.
The pain is plastered all over my face.
She seems oblivious to these.

Instead she grabs my camera from
the bedside table - begs me to smile
for a photograph. (And you said I was mad.)
The smile is forced, of course.
She swoops down on me from
every angle - tells me I look
like a character from a Jane Austen novel:
"I prefer Charlotte Bronte."
"Don't be ridiculous, Rebecca.
You're no plain Jane!"
Then shuffles off to bed.

I stand before the mirror,
let my dress crumple to the floor,
strip until all that is left is my necklace -
the one with the silver scroll pendant;
you've even touched it before.
Those two words, engraved like a spell;
the enchantment now broken.
For the first time in months, I take it off;
It drops with a clink on my desk.
Naked, I go to bed...

Wake a few hours later - distraught!
I claw and paw at my neck, but
feel only skin and air. It's not there.
I ache for it; you know I had a habit
of squeezing the pendant between
finger and thumb, flicking the clasp
whilst we spoke, just to check it was
still there; twisting the glinting
chain around my hands.

I get out of bed. Clip it back on in the dark.
The metal – cold to my flesh - snuggles
into my neck, brushes my collar bone.
I know I am not ready yet...
to be shadowless and completely alone.