pick at your machiavellian mask and let me see you bleed dry of your contemptible hypocrisygrab your jewelled knife and rapturously slit my heartstrings,
one
by
one
then watch the haemorrhage of saccharine aversion from my veins
feast your mind on the pool of crimson torment, staining your snowy wings
yet, your wings are seldom wings at all.
because with prudent thought, they are not snowy,
they are glaciers of frozen vehemence, weighing only me down
and the only use for these false wings appear to be when you soar beyond the limits, annihilating the boundaries of my debilitated mind
admittedly, your devil horns might have been the only candid thing about you, had it not been for your fabricated halo and the arctic glow it cast to conceal them
those horns were my spindle, and I, the naïve princess
and the blood that remained on your psychotic spindle was and is your fuel of loving insanity
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glass slipper | poetry
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