Cinderella

A cradled ghost, an amnesic requiem, a nameless chord, a disenchanted sigh. The glass slipper mocks you from across the room. It's the symbol of eternal beauty and matchless grace, nothing you can fake. If you try and it doesn't fit, you will bleed and it will break. You pick it up, carefully. No use embarrassing yourself. You try not to look obvious, like you know it isn't going to fit you. That you just might break it, either accidentally or simply to show power over it. Fascination replaces trepidation and it's in your hands. And for a moment, you have everything you could ever want. a dance with the Prince, a brilliant gown that you almost feel too good for, and no one can deny that the world is yours. Lightning replaces veins, and no dream seems too far away. Empty notebooks are filled with plans. You can't believe you used to want this, that you used to be on the other side of this universe. But you can't have that much without having less later. You sell your future for this moment, again and again. And you try to forget how good it felt. because you want the control. and trying to remember that is like trying to recall a falling star. because how can you forget something you'll never see again? You want the control, but not as much as it wants yours. So you come back to it. Eyes wide, fingers steady. With one brave breath, and you can't help but ask, Is this my life? Snowed-on moonstone, opaque smoke. Lie down on the carpet and pretend it's the sky that you can see under your eyes. And as if was there all along, it whispers into your ear: Don't you remember all the love I gave you, baby? All the promises I put right in your mouth, then stitched in your heart for safekeeping? Like black asps and smoke ribbons, I spun around you, and you admired my weightlessness. You take it back. You wish you had just kept it in your hand, toying with the prospect of it being meant for you, rather than shattering it completely. You want it to fit. Everybody does. But then the clock strikes midnight, your dress is a mere rag, your heart on pause and pawing for that night again, with nothing but a single glass slipper for proof of the night you had before. You are no Cinderella and there is no perfect fit. A cradled ghost, an amnesic requiem, a nameless chord, a disenchanted sigh. The glass slipper makes a fool out of you. You break every shard, just wanting a touch. “I read this for a slam. I like corrupting Disney characters.” November 25th, 2010