"Smile."
I don't know if the words are harsh anymore,
Or if I have misconceived them,
Convinced myself of a story that doesn't exist.

I open the storybook,
Gaze upon its pretty illustrations,
Wondering if the Story of Cinderella,
Could be drawn so beautiful,
When her stepsister's heel is being sliced off,
A sliver of flesh for sixteen years of injustices.

My stepmother's hand only painted my face in black and purple once,
Fingertips pressing my eyelids against my cheeks,
Left one doomed to be eternally half shut,
The cause of muttered curses later.

I am no Cinderella,
Tan hands folding over
Seventy dollar wallets
And smoothing out
Wrinkles in hundred dollar dresses.

I am no Princess,
With the cracks in my arms,
From too many nights dropping,
Red ink into warm salt water,
The taste of tears on my bitten tongue,
Everything I wish that could be
Forgotten.

"Smile," Dad says,
And I pull back like a withering flower,
Retracting its petals for the last time,
For fear of losing sunlight,
With winter's coming.

I reach my hand out,
Wondering if I'll
Greet
His
Skin
With
My
Touch
And just as he looks up from his phone,
I pull back again,
Wondering why I'm comparing my life to a story book,
When it's just a bottle of Jack Daniels,
Awaiting me away,
At Dad's house,
When I go there,
Every Thursday.

I never did understand liquor,
And as I stare at the bottom of the cup,
I wonder,
How many secrets I'll drown,
In my stepmother's liquor cabinet
Tonight.