it's like those forgotten stories in the
darkened corner of your room
of clichéd love and beautiful fairytales written on
8by11 printer paper with
frayed edges and coffee cup stains
thrown carelessly amongst
crumpled cigarette sticks that were never
lit;
maybe because it hurt too much to thi--

beautifully planned stories of princes and
princesses, but there's always that one
tragedy where it's like a
broken porcelain ballerina doll
with a chipped face and
one less of an arm but she
always still has that
china-doll face and that
china-doll smile and you know you can't
erase it from your memory;
--nk that you had forgotten the love sto-

painted your windows a starched white to
match the magenta red of your walls and
your own complexion
sometimes you wonder if you really recognize the
person looking back at you in the
mirror;
--ries that we used spin, like how the spid-

maybe if you found some magenta red in your life it
would make the stories more realistic and
you can be the tragedy and
the broken porcelain ballerina doll
with a broken face and
much less of an arm but
she always still has that
china-doll face and that
china-doll smile and you know you can't
erase the permanent tear marks on your face;
--er spun his web but got trapped in it himself
and never could get out