glass slipper | poetry

waltz with a ghost | part three

filth danced on the ridged nightmare

that let the demons constantly tear at her flesh

eat at her mind

destroy her, poison her, corrupt her

with evil? with sadness?

both,

for her loss caused her

plenty torturous suffering

to feel as though

all the lives she took

would suffice to avenge

the one that the callous heavens

had taken from her

a deafeningly quiet click

when the record slid into place

into the damned machine

that played

myriad songs of hell she owned

and so,

the music began to play

she stared at her reflection in the metal

a sorry figure stared back,

sick, wonderful, crimson patterns

swirled on her hands

dried, and frosted with dust

lips of perished petals

that once spoke of perfumed lullabies

that now did not speak,

instead opting to communicate

with a hilt

with a blade

alternatively, opting to speak

with a trigger

with bullets

the corners of these putrescent lips turned up,

twisting into a heinous smile

she stepped away,

entranced by the music

and turned around,

meeting eyes with a familiar figure,

the only figure

which could have bought her peace of heart--

had she possessed one in the first place

wrapping her arms around the chimeric dream,

she began to sway

but what she could not have seen

is that her arms had clasped nothing

except her pitiful self

what she could not have seen

is that she was waltzing with a ghost

real to her

fictitious to you and me