It’s called a pavement fairytale,
When the great white stallions are Mustang convertibles
And the forbidden forest is really a cluster of
Dark alleys and men, not dragons, breathing smoke.
Graffiti is washed across the walls like a living ocean of
Spray-painted girls and Susi and Danny forever
(Do they know they’re playing Romeo and Juliet?).

Boys lay and watch
Waiting for the time of the streetlights because
They love the way the eerie light glimmers on their lip rings,
Like real shards of moonlight on their flesh.
The girls scowl and stare, leaving notes and diary entries on dirty park benches,
Telling you over and over that this should not be called a fairytale.
But you are driven by that spine-tingling promise;
That within these pulsing brick walls there really is some type of beauty,
Some type of magic going on without you.

And so you stay; entranced by the wolfish boys and cat-like girls,
Who ask you if you’re the princess or the hag
When in reality they could care less, and smile at you with suburban lips,
“This has never been a fairytale sweetie, fairy dust never saved me once—
Do you still want our world?”
Yes, you whisper, closing your eyes, imagining a calypso of
Sunsets, late-night nirvanas, angel tears and rose-thorn bracelets,
Even though they told you this should never be called a fairytale.