Lost Fairytale

The soft unwelcome

chorus of her withered

butterfly crown is

biting across her face,

down her neck—smudged

lipstick stains stubbornly

refusing to disappear.

The song's bottled

back up in her throat

and he's nowhere near

to drink it anymore.

She gave her voice

and it became her silver

bullet for two birds.

What was sleeping

in her marrow is now

raking its claws through

her bones. These clichés

faded into transparency

and she knows she

was lingering by a ghost.

Perhaps,

she always knew.

Her tears are fraudulent

shooting stars; they offer

nothing but a bitter

taste in drowned hope.

In towel-headed vulnerability,

her thoughts are

Juliet's lethal poison

and her kiss is of

no true-love's power.

That breathless moment

before her lips

is dying between

her teeth. A ceramic

ballerina coming down

from her toes as

the music box breaks;

she holds the bloody shards

of the window panes—

the barrier she tried

to escape. Clutched close, they

murmur to her chest:

who's bow

does the arrow

fly from?