dainty princess of imagination,
dancing in the glowing moonlight
she's living her life the way
she wanted to when she was a little girl
just like the queens people said were real
yet her fragile light bleeds into the pillow.
every night the tears stream,
blotchy dark stains on the crumpled flower
of her 'purity', her 'perfection'. more aptly her pretense.
her beauty, or rather lack thereof.
scarlet butterflies dance in the bedroom
or maybe it's just the red patterns
which surround her, beautiful yet menacing as
a swarm of wasps, when she searches for herself
too critically and cynically.
her makeup has blurred again.
it's smudged by steady trickles of tears
and thin streaks of blood courtesy
of the one she thought she loved.
there's even a card with the gift box.
but she doesn't dare open the card
with her thin, shaky fingers because she's afraid.
she's afraid she'll tremble so hard at what she reads
her bones will snap. but she's not worried about her mind,
because that said goodbye seven years ago.
her life isn't the fairytale she desperately wanted
and this just refused to twist into her pretty little love story.
it just morphed, shapeshifting into pain-filled memories,
and the black and white death of her sanity,
and her slipping grasp
on reality.
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