Fairy tales do not exist and cupids arrow will always miss. The evil queen will always win and every girl is filled with sin.
There’s no golden fleece to protect us all no fairy godmother to stop your fall. The birds don’t clean and cats don’t talk and there’s no such thing as the perfect walk.
There’s no bread crumbs to find your way and no fire breathing dragon for you to slay. Hearts are real and cannibalism does exist and there’s no such thing as the perfect kiss.
The emerald city and the world of oz are just a dream and yes, people really are that mean. Parlour tricks and a clever tongue and no the spell won’t break with the morning sun.
Fairy tales do not exist but I think I might just take that risk.
If her words are to be cut from her tongue, if her silence is to be cut from her soul, she has only her ink. The solace of her page, the sombre flow of thoughts carved into yesterday’s canvas. The freedom of poetic expression…said here, said there, the effect is the same. The cause falls on blind eyes, a defensive soul guarding against… The only one he needs not. For those words silenced in reprimand wanted not to talk of command, demand or dictating, just love. A silence that wished not to hurt, offend or harm found an unwanted battle ground of misunderstanding and trust questioned on the balance beam of expectations, emotions, a kaleidoscopic rainbow of scars itching to rip open, and she is not trusted to itch them, she is not trusted to express the way they scratch, they bleed, perhaps such a thing is for children, for the weak..for they are the adults. Then she stands in all her glory for she holds no shame in her weakness. Her silence sought only his love, the tender touch of his words the reassuring tone of primal need on carnals vice. His defence, guarded, angered.. the unnescasary ripples of his own scars, as he scratched them into life. For an unexpressed thought will ricochet through existence slowly crumbling foundations. A recipe for disaster, one part love, one part lust, one part the closed eyes of a pretence, a locked vault of despair, a curse she never once wished upon him, never had she bound his tongue never had she silenced his silence. She holds all trust in their love, all belief in their truths. In the silence of no words said, she ponders the irony that of all the things he did not trust, it was her need to express without consequences to him, her need to understand the pain that drives, her need to have the freedom to be vulnerable, safe in the knowledge he’d catch her…
If I gather up the cracked pieces of timeless porcelain, the shattered grains of soul, the shards of spirit, the chipped remains of identity… With my heart in pieces; perhaps you could help me tidy them into neat piles of rationality, dust away the insanity. Fill the voids with self believe, polishing them with self confidence long lost in the devils hour.
He stroked tangles into her once luscious mane,
and peppered it in the muted hues of time.
He smoothed the years across her brow
and etched his hate
within her blunt laughter lines.
He left a thesis of his dysfunction written between the grains of her invalid groin
and ringed the spoils of her scars in red ink.
He left her skin bare of kisses, of love,
of exploration or pleasure
he tamed the primal beast
he groomed her into silence
then gave her a mirror
and said…
I looked for the stars in an empty sky, then I see them twinkling in your precious eyes. I looked to the world for beauty unseen I find it right there in your fearsome belief. I looked in the faces for pure kindness you see, then I saw it was all that you were able to be. I looked to the universe for a reason to see, and the universe gave you, to me.
