glass slipper | poetry

machiavellian mask

pick at your machiavellian mask and let me see you bleed dry of your contemptible hypocrisy

grab 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