Mouse Hunter

"The shoes don't fit!" 

she cried. "They are too small,

and too big all at once."

Yes.

Well.

Out of 100 girls, 

Cinderella's shoes only fit 1.

None of us are princesses just

waiting to be discovered as we

mourn in soot stained crumbled

down fireplaces where the fire has 

died.

(Knock knock here is your real dress

and impossible shoes made of glass

that splits your skin when it shatters

as you run away from perfection you

couldn't touch without breaking it and 

it breaking you.)

Also those tiny squeaking furry critters

in your attic are not your 

friends kid,

they are disease on legs.  

Stop feeding your poison and singing 

them hope.  Walk into that place

above your head and wash it out.  Use 

as much salt and water as you need.

Set traps.

Then use the bodies to rekindle the

fire that will warm you, if only

temporarily,

and bring light.

You might not be a Disney Princess;

(you aren't.)

You might become a house hunter

yet.

The Dress

When the dress had been torn, it had barely been worn.
(It was only the morn of the day you were born.)

It was only the morn of the day you were born,
and the dress, barely worn, had already been torn.

On the day you were born, when the dress had been torn,
it had barely been worn.
(It was only the morn.)

But the dress? Barely worn? On the day you were born?
On that day in the morn had already been torn.)

(It was only the morn.
It was already torn.
yet the dress had been worn
by the time you were born.)

It was bare on the morn
it was worn once, then torn
and that's where, in that dress
you were already born.