You Tell The Story, I'm Too Tired

Cold. The mud sweats. Heavy with the weight of her skin. Dark with all she's kept inside it. The fairy princess flaps her wings to diffuse the storm under her dress. The wicked witch waves her wand to summon the charmings. From the conveyor belt they tumble. Their smiles not quite set. Some ship with horses. Others with only glass slippers. All are backed by a whine if you want to guarantee.

Oh cinderella! What have you done driving your pumpkins and wearing mirrors on your feet. What did you want to find. In those whore parades of the rich. And what of it have you? Escape. Blame. Drugs. Martyrdom. The claws under your skin slowly poking out. Shy portraits of faces you only wear alone. Don't you know the only evil is the kind we bring upon ourselves. Don't you wish you had wished for something else.

The dish finally catches the spoon. But it doesn't work out. The cow finally jumps over the moon, but no one believes her. the story's too late. The child has already fallen asleep.

Happily ever after is too sober.

All these fairy tales are useless to me.