Sometimes I pretend I'm a princess.

I'm alone when I go walking, and up the little hill on my road I step lightly as though I were stepping with pearly skinned feet slippered in the silkiest, whitest, most intricate of footware. My toe goes first and then my heel, and the dirty ashfault is not good enough for me. There lies an invisible wire that I gracefully and confidentally step across, keeping my queenly self above the hustle and bustle of a humanity that isn't worthy of me. I hold my head up high and pretend that my skin is as clear as a glassy lake surface on an overcast day. My lips are slightly pink and my eyes are deep and shining, because an esteemed lady such as myself deserves only the lightest and most rare of maquillage. My hair is long and flowing and the curls are perfect and weave majestically about my perfect head. My hands are delicate, and my nails no longer ragged and dirty. They are little flat white stones on the end of my fingers. My body is covered in a gown that was woven from the spools of the moon, and around my throat hangs crystalized blood droplets.

My name is something stately and yet fantastical, chosen with the utmost care. Around my flawless lips is a smile, for I am aware of my stunning beauty, and every human who gazes at me stares at my smiling face. How can they resist?

Sometimes in my dirty shoes, faded jeans and scuffed leather jacket I pretend I'm a princess.