​My darling, my darling, my sweetest of sweets
With roses for lips and plump peaches for cheeks
My darling, with ringlets of gold on their head
My darling, who now lies cold, still, and dead.

My darling, my darling, most beloved of loves
With the heart of a lamb and the mind of a dove
My darling, who loved the world in my stead
My darling, who now lies cold, still and dead.

My darling, my darling, my dearest of dears
Who smiled of pleasure and knew not of fear
My darling, whose footprints I now tread
My darling, who now lies cold, still and dead.

sometimes, ugly ducklings
will grow into ugly ducks
​
and caterpillars will
grow into moths and not
butterflies

because fairy
tales are just tales for fairies,

and we ain't fairies.

they say
if you reach too close
to the sun

you fall
to the depths
of the ocean below
​
like icarus
on his wings of melting wax.

the color of blood is not scarlet
or crimson red. it is the rusting
of old metal and the frothing
tantrums of lava. it is an overripe
strawberry left unpicked on
the vine to rot. it is a rose with
thorns or a leaf in autumn,
blown awry by vengeful gusts of
wind. it is streaks of watercolor
against the canvas of the evening
sky. it is a grain of sand in the
harsh desert or a pebble in a small
stream. it is a pomegranate in
persephone's hands or a single
perfect red apple in the basket
of an elderly woman.