After

Sick of all her hometown's deadbeat princes
and their guttural groans ringing below
the rusted bleachers, she barely winces
at the monster her magic mirrors show:
red-rimmed eyes, bruised like apples, crooked gaze,
coarse, tangled curls blacker than nicotine,
lips caked and bloody with a candy glaze,
skin pale as milk, curdling beneath its sheen.
Seven men or seven hundred, she thinks
while changing hotel sheets, all are dwarfed by
diamonds and someone else to clean the sinks.
I won't wait for fairytales 'til I die.
Careening west, skies bleed a crimson hue:
she never glances at the cracked rearview.


A/N: Astride her bloody stallion, sputtering gasoline fumes down a freeway scorched with old skidmarks, she's forgotten her old dreams of white horses and blank, handsome faces.