In the fairy tale, Aimee was bad at heart, a pretty shell that promised a pearl and when cracked open, gave grains of sand instead. It scratched the surface of the eyes and misled; Aimee was just one of those pretty Jezebels, cruel within, decorated without. Her sister Aurore was the heroine, a fatalist, who sighed her philosophy: 'What will be will be' and her patience and good heart tugged her towards the coincidences that always favour the light. But Aimee was driven away by her own wickedness, and had not the luck of the good. All Aimee had was the face.
These are the kind of stories I am tired of because I want to tell you that when Aimee was just a small girl, she sat and watched her mother scrutinise her appearance in the mirror. She watched as she painted her face and knew then that she was just a painted beauty, a kind that easily peels off. How little it mattered though, as her mother smiled at her jewels. Painted or true, her mother had succeeded through beauty. So Aimee saw no good in the kind and the patient, who suffered and accepted their suffering. She chose an ambition called wickedness and she wore it like a petticoat beneath the blue ballgown. Aimee was the kind of girl to get what she wanted. Her mother had taught her that her face was the only kind of fatalism she could follow.
I am tired of these fairy tales that give undefined shapes. I'm tired of the dichotomy between the good and the bad. I'm bored of the light always finding their happily ever after. Just tell me the story of the dark and tell it properly.
I woke up at 5am and decided to write this... not my best, but it's a character poem, from the perspectiveΒ Β of my character Amelie (Amy) inspired by the fairy tale Aurore and Aimee