Beneath the Broken Spell
The woods are never as kind
as the stories make them seem.
Little Red does not skip,
her feet heavy with the weight
of the basket,
its contents a secret darker than the night.
The wolves aren’t just hungry,
they’re desperate.
Their teeth are sharp,
their hunger endless.
And the huntsman?
His axe is too slow,
his conscience too soft
for the forest that devours
the innocent.
The glass slipper is not a gift
but a trap—
shattered on a floor slick
with blood and cinders,
and the prince’s kiss?
It’s poison in disguise.
She wakes,
but the dream has already unraveled—
her skin is no longer soft,
but bruised,
marked with the touch of something
darker than desire.
The stepmother’s mirror cracks
under the weight of truth,
reflecting not beauty,
but the hollowed-out faces of those
who thought they could bargain with fate.
The walls of the castle are paper thin,
and behind them,
the forest waits,
its branches clawing at the gates.
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