Click your heels, darling—
red as fresh-spilled secrets,
lacquered in the longing
of a girl caught between worlds.
The shoes gleam under studio lights,
a crimson promise, a whispered lie.
Tread lightly—the yellow bricks burn,
hot as stage-lamp sunbursts.
Magic is a contract signed in dust—
not fairy dust, but the kind that coats lungs,
turns breath to wheezing lullabies,
fills dreams with silver-flecked scars.
The witch shrieks, fire swallows her whole—
the flames don’t wait for cut.
She vanishes, but the burns stay,
seeping beneath the green of her skin.
The Tin Man rattles, hollow but breathing,
lungs stiff with powdered metal.
His tears are made of oil now,
his smile a polished afterthought.
Toto limps off set, paw trembling—
no curtain call for the crushed.
The monkeys drop like fallen stars,
wires snapping mid-flight.
And Judy—oh, Judy—
her laughter is stitched together,
a patchwork of amphetamines and exhaustion,
eyes wide as if searching for Kansas
but only finding the next scene.
Still, the shoes sparkle.
Still, they tell you to click.
Because every girl wants to go home—
even when home is a fairytale
built on broken bones.
Click, click—
but the magic is only real if you believe.
This poem was inspired by the tragedies underlying The Wizard of Oz—because there is a very hidden suffering beneath that magic. From disastrous injuries on set to the exploitation of Judy Garland, the film’s glamour was built on real-life suffering. The red heels transform into a haunting symbol — not only of escape, but of the price of illusion.
