the sound of poetry rising bending taking shape
draws you out of those bony eyes, bruised lips so you can follow her ascent
(intomadness) from the ashes
until, like the hush of rushing water,
darkness inverts and is still dark.

Do try to remember that the moon is only a (distorted) reflection &
the storybook pages were torn out long ago
truthseeker.
But you know the words by heart and can recite them
when asked.
shhhhhh– we listen.
Secretly she kept count of days by marking coal on the back of the good china and it was
in the garden with the scuttling rats that she discovered she could make her own magic.
There was a certain smell about it, deep and permeating and possibly like sex
(but she wouldn't know) because it was instinct that taught her the right words & all it took
was—
the strike of angry (clock)hands drags her down the palace steps
where she tips– spills– sinks,
dress tattered pearls and pieces of heart strewn across the floor.
These shards match the contours of her feet because
they were meant for her.
Will she claim them?

The key in the door the click of a lock fists pounding crying sobbing let me out! the words by heart is it here here here– where is it when The blood is black and oozing because Isn't there some way out? tongues of make-believe lovers and prince pretenders caress her or is that sweat on her brow No hope is the best hope lost and confused Can't they hear me? happily ever after strewn across the rising bending taking shape Can't anyone -if only- hear me? hear me? hear me?

Real life isn't the same as happily ever after.