Little Remarked Upon Vanishings and Disappearances

Once upon a time I was the elder sister of a girl enchanted by a ring.

And I, the elder of a girl wed to a wolf or a hunter, one and the same.

My mother took off her clothes and skin and ran away with a fairy king.

I was lost beneath the wave of a parenthesis detailing a sea lion's interest in my daughter.

And I, still,--

They've heard enough.

We. We. We.

We are the girls, the women, who are lost and unsearched for.

The elders and daughters to dimwits and floozies.

(Even those hideous stepsisters, not related by blood to magic or beauty, were not removed from the story so quick.)

Forgotten.

There are no stories about us because we are forgotten once you move to the next sentence, the next line. We're erased.

Beneath the porous surface of the first paragraph our fate, oblivion, waits.

But you can save us--Call 555-Fairy Tale Rewrite.

We're waiting.

We're dreaming

of a fairytale

ending.