Guilty words slip
from her lips as
the glass slipper
shatters at her toes.
While yours,
finely skilled
slither between her hips
snake their way
to her heart and
pull strings connected.

She has choked on
these condescending thorns
weaving through the holes and
arteriole walls;
slowly killing her,
as smoke fills his head blind.

She took a bite of
the forbidden fruit,
while mystery tempos
flowed from fingertips;
his tongue
grew different voice roots,
they were studded
flowers of good intentions.

As the whitewashed winter cleared,
she rips all weeds
from this ribbed caged Crimson clay.
Free from the deterioration
of broken backbone promises.

Yet blind eyes stare at the
spring cleaned garden
and ask where the weeds went,
why she didn't keep them?
She answers with a deep breath
simply without choking on chains.