|
| |
The Blood-Stained Glass Heart
She scrubs the floors with hands that bleed,
her heart, a brittle thing beneath her chest—
a reflection of the shattered glass
she once danced on,
believing love was a crown
meant to fit anyone.
The prince's ring,
so smooth,
is a shackle,
and his kiss—
not a promise,
but a contract with the devil’s own whisper.
Her stepsisters wear their cruelty
like fine silk,
while her smile fades
into the dust of her cinders.
The carriage,
once golden,
is a cage
that rattles down the path
toward a ball
that was never hers to begin with.
The clock does not strike midnight.
It grinds her bones to powder,
and she is left standing
in the ruins of her own dreams,
the glass slipper cutting into her flesh
as if it always knew
it was meant to break her.
Copyright ©
Evelyn Hew
|
|