Cinderella Red
Her hair was red, frizz with frost
Crisped, solidity, warmth was lost
Porcelain skin, eyes of deep blue
Hair falling in wisps, reminds you of someone,
you likely once knew
how her voice danced, twirled dangerously in a box
of concrete and bricks, the soft patters of her socks
on the ground of the gym, you had admired her pace
she was frivolity, not a single strand of haste
born light, a light she had raised
tenderly, carefully, creating her grace
learning to sing, to talk soft whispers
that everyone hears, that everyone hears.
Her voice, less spoken, now lies
In the grass, strangled and trapped,
From the corner I spy
She had been happy, so happy, its profound
She was always so quiet, yet her image so loud
So soft, she screams, as she walks past your way
I hear, I do, but little do I say
Smudge, like a smudge, when you breath onto frost
A small dollop of black, perfect eyeliner was lost
Frosty blue, she wore, frosty blue
It matched her skin, like most, this did too
Her boyfriend, he was rotten,
A nettle that might sting
But her frost blue, believed
A wedding ring he might bring
As she waited, patiently, legs crossed
Her frost blue tint, seemed to be lost
Has it fallen, Ill check, When she finally clears
When the small crowd moves, and I can go near
She waited, smiling blue, rooftop high
He said he would meet her, sticky red she would cry
Frost doesn’t settle, on surfaces wet
But ice does smother, on the fate she was met
She had stood, abrupt, on the rooftop that morning
Just a day after, I had heard, her silent little mourning
Her dress that day, so pretty, emerald green
Not blue, but it matched, her porcelain gleam
She stepped, or leapt, at the least she travelled not far,
The ledge fell behind her, but did not dent a single car
Yet neither did she, as her limp bodice fell
Rested silently at once, like a twisted fairytale
Cinderella found no prince, for he matched her sister
Who cut of her toes, for him to kiss her
She was less perfect, much so, indeed
But she was louder, fiercier, more open to greed
Poor little Cinderella, her life was pure hell
But the trips to the furnace, meant her skin did stay well
And her work in the dumpsters, meant she found quite the bargains
In makeup and clothes and books, so her appearance never faded
But inside she felt broken, he made her whole
But her sister was entitled, to the entirety of her soul
So little Cinderella, whose skin looks so white
Lies quietly beside, the schools parking site.
Copyright © Matilda Gratton | Year Posted 2019
|