it's like those forgotten stories in the
darkened corner of your room
of clich├ęd 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