I hope you like this. It's my own late night ponderings, when I wonder why I haven't let myself try the words or give in completely to this beautiful world. Enjoy.

Boogity.

Never Call You

I've never called you. I think you wonder why, when you know that I love you.

I know all of the words. Every girl here in my world does. We all grew up with the idea that, 'secretly, the Goblin King was in love' with each of us, and had given us certain powers. We each believed that if we made a hasty wish late on a stormy night, away from the protection of our parents, you would come to fulfill it. You would arrive in fanfare and finery, glitter and gold, trailing magic and promise.

You would be terrifying. You would be intimidating. You would ooze a sensuality not found in any other being. Your very essence would speak of a world of passion and fantasy, beauty and mystery, the secrets behind the closed doors of adulthood. This would be a place where nothing was disappointing. Here even the plainest and least attractive girl would find her pastiness morphing into alabaster; her plump flesh sliding into sensuous curves, her imperfect face suddenly sporting sweet and compelling character.

There would be a showdown. You would make guest appearances throughout the play, but the majority of the time the girl would get the chance to taste her own power and gain more courage for the final confrontation.

And what a confrontation it would be. Magic, like lightning, would crackle in the air. You would show sensual vulnerability devastating in its effectiveness. She would stand tall, finally aware that all along she'd had strength and power. Words would be spoken, and all would be as it must be.

Only in these dreams, offers would not be refused. They would finally be recognized for what they really are; the tortured love offer of a supremely lonely being. She would finally see that you were willing to give up your will to the mortal that you love for longer than forever. Because, you'd sing, it's only forever, not long at all. You would be offering so much more than that.

The proffered crystal would be clasped to her chest, and the world would fade away and reorganize itself into a realm of dream and perfection.

She would suddenly find her old clothing gone and she'd now be dressed in velvet. Always velvet. There would be bodices and jewelry and an ever present scent of peaches, wafting gently through the air.

She would be taken to your castle and then a sweet contest would begin, one that would put all others to shame.

Oh, there would be storms of conflicting passions. Each iron nature will would fight to find dominance in this new relationship. Each contestant would ignore all bounds of the mundane flow of relationships and would get caught up in this otherworldly, unrealistic passion. The likes of which no one has seen before.

You would be a brave, proud man, with an ever present threat of cruelty. You would be mean and mischievous, taunting and provoking, and, above all, always afraid to surrender your heart. You would seem to be unapproachable and unreachable, but you would be hiding your truly vulnerable and loving core buried in erotic arrogance. It would flash up sometimes in your amazing, unreadable depths. She would see the flicker of some unnamed emotion pass across your mismatched eyes; only for her purposes they would become intense, cerulean orbs.

She would be virginal and stand-offish, never sure if she could really trust you- her mortal enemy- but strangely drawn to try. You had tried to steal her sibling. You did terrible things to children, (so she thought. She wouldn't know the true, noble reasons behind your actions. That revelation would be saved for another, more romantic moment.) and you were a man to be feared. She would vow to never, never give in to your seductive powers, even though she was here at your invitation, one she willingly accepted.

 There would be harsh words, and much angst, and many nights of frustrated desires.

Finally, however, you would come to your senses, as would she, and both of you would be thrown together in a night of stormy passion. The earth would move, lives would be changed, and at last all secrets would be revealed and happiness would be obtained. An eternity of bliss would await you and your new queen. You would awake each morning saturated with the knowledge that everything was finally going to be right.

Your story promises all of this. It is something almost tangible, something to be sought and strained for.

I am a girl. I am a dreamer. I would believe with all my soul that fairies and dwarves and goblins exist, all in a magical land ruled by a devastating king in a castle at the center of the Labyrinth. I would believe that if I called you, you would come- but only if it were an extremely bad time for you to do so. I would believe that maybe there is a happily ever after, maybe relationships can be satisfying in every way, maybe all dreams can come true and we can all have power and beauty.

I would believe in everything.

But I'll never call you.

Your world isn't real. I cannot revel in the fantasy of it all. I cannot loose myself in the crystal, dancing forever amongst leering faces, content simply to rest against a man I'll never understand. I won't drown my senses in slight of hand and let illusion rule me. I will not pretend that I'm that cheap. I cannot be bought with senseless promises. I will not settle for a beautiful nothing, because that beauty's hollow.

I will have the place where fantasy meets with harsh, unforgiving reality. I will have the place that admits to death and the ends of all good things. I will live in the land of light and shadow, looking for the companion who can be both. Someone both the glare of horrible mortality and the illumination of eternity. I will have the imperfect love, the imperfect life, the imperfect me.

I'll never call you, and a part of me will scream that I'm throwing away my dreams. I'm throwing away my heart. I'm throwing away my childhood, my fantasies that pop like the last crystal you throw when offers are rejected.

But in truth, my fantasies are too precious to be trusted to so fickle a character. They lie at the center of my chest, in the burning zone that flares up at the sight of beauty. They're light sensitive. Exposing them to the brilliance of realization would put them at risk.

They wouldn't survive their own conception. Like undeveloped film exposed to the outside they would wither and darken, shadow and dull, turning into nothings in a nothing life. Because there's no hard substance to fantasy. It always leaves you begging for more. It always disappoints. Fantasies are dead beat parents. Fantasies are Polaroid pictures. Fantasies are the toy surprises in cereal boxes. They fall short. They're not self sufficient. If leaned on they crumble like salt pillars. They ruin life.

No, Goblin King, I'll leave you in my mind and heart, locked up tight. You'll never disappoint. You'll never fall short. You'll never fail, or prove to be only so much insubstantial and desperate fiction. You'll stay there, in my innermost secret chambers, flowing with my blood and dancing to my heart's rhythm. Your glitter will be my red blood cells, your glamour my electric impulses. You'll be shared with the part of me that gasps in wonder at the new life Spring gives to the trees. You'll be the part of me that begs to dance and twirl in the rain. You'll be in the dreamy looks that fall upon my face, in the attention I pay to stupid details, in the wonder that all of life's tiny miracles fills me with.

But that's all you'll ever be.

And I'm doing you a favor. I'm saving you from being exhausted from living up to my expectations of you.

Now isn't that generous?