Blissfully content with ignorance, her
finger ran through the plaything's straight,
vibrant blonde hair. Her's were too thick and wild to run fingers through,
her curly mane tangled and alive like thickets of vines. She prayed she could
run her fingers through her hair one day
and imagined it'd feel like silk. She begged and begged until she got
her wish, full of excitement for when the day came.
The vines screamed as the iron tamed them, weakening under torture.
Rushing to the mirror to admire her new do,
long dark velvet flowed for all to view.
Again and again, it went on, till the velvet
was rug and the thicket was gone.
Picked and plucked and pulled, it refused to move.
Mirrors all around shattered as she glanced at them, her mane now a damaged mess.
Her crown was gone, she has nothing left.
Like peeling back a ripe plantain,
the broken glass glided with ease.
All her hopes and dreams soaked the ground beneath.