is there’s just one of you — more in the corps,
a dozen girls who covet the headpiece
secured by thirty bobby pins. Abhor
your good fortune. Pretend to be friends. Peace
is mathematically sound when it’s ten
surrounding one, too terrified, thin. Learn
survival means shopping, invitations —
one texting this evening, ice blue eyes burn
your soul: “Art party, castle, wear faux pink
mink stole. Tiara, I’ll borrow — you’ve got
so many of them.” No doubt she keeps track. Think
you should say no. Stay in. But it’s a thought
that doesn’t add up. You factor her wrath.
Too many girls hate you. It’s princess math.
The Math of a Princess
