I used to climb the tallest trees.
Never paying a mind to bruises or scraped knees.
Now I drink from dainty china cups.
The ticking of the clock seems to slow as I glance up.
In my lovely house I host two guests.
Neither I could honestly call the best.
The lady speaks in whispers, and her husband speaks in shouts.
And every word he seems to spout labels him even more of a lout.

Then and now, now and then.
Oh goodness me, it's half-past ten.

I am tightly laced, with a powder white face and my hair pinned up with combs.
The dry crackle resounds as my husband turns a page, and I wish more and more that we were anywhere but home.

I am only twenty three, but it feels more like eighty to me.
My stomach swells, it is hell.
Me, the newly married bride.
Carrying a child like this, my first. With my clueless husband at my side.

I would take being captured by Hook instead of this, with twigs tangled in my hair.
With the other Lost Children and I cursing our luck, while inhaling the balmy still air.
The child I carry will be an heir.
Else the throne of our fortune will be bare.

I often wonder if it still exists.
With its magic and faeries and childhood bliss.
My future son would have loved it there.
Where you could literally wave goodbye to all of your cares.

If only Peter could see me now, could he tell, would he know?
The child locked inside these eyes.
At night rather often I used to cry.

Now I have learned to smile and chat.
Being as natural as ever, despite the steel rod up my back.
Who knew my imagination could come in so handy?
Life as a grown woman is just dandy.

Somestimes I whisper, when my husband is asleep.
To Tootles instead of counting sheep.
I wonder if he hears me, somewhere in London.

I must watch what I say, lest I be chained up and shipped away.
It is a miracle to survive another day.