The midnight toll passed hours ago,
it’s time to crawl into a cold bed,
red-eyed and agitated. She’ll stay silent
and grab the Valium, while you become
paranoid and do one more line.
She wants to run a marathon, shop for shoes,
tell the world how good her skin feels,
right up until it ends. Then she’s a broken-
winged pixie, careening toward the pit.
That damn clock and its smug
wide-open chimes announce a full-throated
conclusion to another intolerable day.
She feels like her ugly stepsisters,
mangled under the royal carriage wheels.
Twisted in sweat-soaked silk sheets,
suppressing screams, she stares at the nothing
filling the room and repeats the litany:
Tomorrow will be different.
She barely resembles that girl you promised
a happily-ever-after, before this travesty of
over-sized handbags, designer poison
and constant nasal-drip.
The mice hate wearing tuxedos, she wants
to exchange the corvette for a pumpkin,
and if you could pour that champagne out
of her glass slipper, Cinderella would like it back.
© Jolen Whitworth 2022