poetry spam

[lotesse]

A fairy-tale poem:

Cinderslut

I thought that I'd be able
to take the shoes off
after the ball, or
after the wedding.

I remember choosing them:
They're beautiful. Pinch
like hell, but it's only
one night. Beauty
hath its price, mama said.

For him I was a statue,
perfect, and their marble feet
are happily devoid
of nerve endings to prick and pain.

But the trouble
with marrying princes is
that you have to become
a queen

and every child knows
that queens
dance and dance
in their burning shoes
until they fall down dead.