The last time I put pen to paper,
I spilled ink-
a tad too much.
I rewrote the same lines.
rewrote the same lines.
the same lines.
same lines.
lines.
over and over and over again until it bore a hole into the paper. And that was where I first believed that if anything was real, it will fall apart.
I found these pages that broke loose from the spine of a fairy tale book:
1) What isn't new? Walking on glass.
These voices in the ball.
" If the shoe fits"
" wear it"
No. They never had the chandelier fit
in place.
You had a smile that could light the hall up. ( side down )
When the clock strikes 12, I'd suggest you light a match instead.
2) M' Lady, let down thy hair?
Damsel or ******,
behind these castle walls,
in distress.
When people say they'd die for some company,
do they really?
3) Mirror, Mirror on the wall,
Who's the prettiest of ---
Monsters have green eyes ---
Plump lips; kissable, aren't they?
Ye--- I meant no.
Look me in the eye.
You didn't witness how desperately, ---
I don't see the point ---
she tried to wipe the poison off her lips.
Put these seven dwarves to sleep.
Talk to the mirror again.
4) Close your eyes. What kisses you awake is fear.
5) Red eyes. Bared teeth.
" You don't look the same."
You have been warned about speaking of home to strangers. The heart of it all: you were the leader of the pack.
6) Cry wolf then **** it. Before it kills you.
- end of extracts-
It was torn apart; therefore, it must be real.
I was real; therefore, I have been torn apart.
Was.
Erase every line I wrote.
Erase every line.
Erase the hole I bore in that piece of paper I last put my pen to.
I have learnt that if I didn't want to fall apart,
then I should set fire to the books I used to love.
The very ones that read
" Set yourself on fire;
you can't see in the dark."
taste of fairy tales with a pinch of salt