A forgotten fairytale

One

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When I was a little girl, I would dream of finding true, pure love on snowy hills and morbid mountains, where I was told fairytales took birth.

When I was a little girl, I would dream of finding a prince seated on my window sill, dressed in a beautiful satin gown, as white as the snow and as warm as an amber fire. Breathing against the stained glass, his lipstick intact, gently smeared on his gleaming, broken teeth.

When I was a little girl, I would dream of finding love, and every day I swore, I would gently kiss him under the mistletoe and hold his hands, to stop the snow from taking away the warmth he so desperately deserved. His icy blue veins pressed up against my auburn waves, tangled together we would fall, and the snow beneath us would crumble. Eventually giving way to dark desires and warm blue sunshine, as impure as the horrors that lurk within.

I would make him mittens and ugly jumpers that would put Mrs. Weasley to shame. Hot cocoa as warm as burning embers floating on lava, the type that could stop his heart from beating and revive the dead souls that haunted his dreams.
I would use my delicate crystal sword to protect him from his past and the monsters that made his beautiful mind their refuge.

I would be his princess in shining armour, riding in on a sleigh; pulled by blue eyed, white furred Huskies. Traveling through snow, with a burning ferocity; sunflower yellow teeth bared, intensity that could make the rigid ice crumble just as easily as my dreams had.
The papery white flakes, resting gently against my orange scattered freckles, falling haggardly onto my frozen lips.

You see, I would save him in a heartbeat. Fall in love with his ocean blue eyes, happily drowning in the feeling that bubbled up inside the pit of my stomach, every time he bit his bleeding sapphire lip. Carefully licking up the manna dew that came from those rubies, and use his pulse to keep my heart from stopping.

I would make him feel loved in the simplest of ways.

Be his princess in my shining golden armour, hair adorned with dew drops and gold leaves; Midas himself would wage a war against my radiance; I would be the love of his life.

Waking up every morning, just to make him warm pancakes topped with fluff as soft and delicate as his flaming auburn hair. Maple syrup as smooth as sunshine. I wanted to place cherries on his sundaes, just so I could bite them off when he wasn't looking.
Impatiently waiting for him to steal my crystal cherry, so I could see it break and shatter like brittle glass between his Ruby lips. Gently wiping the blood away with my azure silk napkin.

Suddenly everything would be as purple as my satin sheets. They lay patiently waiting for us under the pillow fort. The One I built with my scarred scabby hands, the place where nightmares go to die.

But, the only love I had ever known, was found in dark alleys and broken brothels.

Romance only meant cheap table cloths and wine served in cracked glasses; even the occasional condom, lying peacefully, undisturbed inside a cracked guitar case.

Sex was never an option, it was always a livelihood.

It had been imprinted onto our very souls, in the form of scars that reeked heavily of cheap liquor and flashy golden bracelets, stuck in a rich man's yellowing tooth. Fairy tales where there were poisoned apples, cracked mirrors, burning spirits and alcohol that could set fire to your iridescent soul. Bedtime stories where giant metal poles had impaled fragile emerald butterflies, leaving behind a mystic crystalline void.

The occasional irreparably cracked scarlet lipstick placed on a decaying oakwood dresser.

French windows that let in a waning moon weeping blood sapphire tears, washed up mermaids stuck in lifeless oceans, gentle moonlight dripping on broken tiaras and priceless wine spilt carelessly on loose floorboards, locked away in underground cellars.

A house made of frosted beach glass firmly buried under grains made of pearls and the helpless cries of dead prisoners, echoing in the mountains that surrounded us.

We didn't know what it was like to be cherished and held affectionately next to a sunless sea, not having to hope for a better future, crying tears of blood and lust, screaming to the deaf and wildly gesturing to the blind.

We were sold by the dozen and starved to make sure we didn't need too much bronzer, after all, there was only one container, and fourteen of us had frostbitten, swollen fingers. Broken cheekbones didn't need concealing. Our secrets were laid out on the table and covered in stained washcloth, a shrine, as dried out and thin as the raw skin that lay between my thighs, used and abused, black and blue, red and gold, pink and purple, a rainbow of despair. A spectrum, long buried and forgotten by the ancestors that birthed it in a broken down hospital.

Lime green tiles in a pitch black corridor, mahogany wood ceilings that constantly reeked of death. The kind that comes with countless pregnancy tests, bleeding rivulets, raw and scarred skin, shriveled toenails, loose strands of hair, breaking waters, lonely sobs, stale blood, dried mothballs stuck in the skeletons of one's past, greying soap, relentless skid marks, desperate scribbles, torn cloth, broken earrings and funeral pyres.

I had snakes for pets and bitches in prison, switchblades in my sleeves and army knives stuffed in my pockets.

Fireplaces were funeral pyres, the place where nightmares are born, and dreams go to die.