Busting through a bee sting nonexistent of a stinger...but a thorn shall thrive in my side forever foregoing a pain that doesn't die but lingers like a listless ghost in the night...
The clock nears that naked number when the dawn meets the dew...when the one meets the two and the grandfather strikes dead right...and it's midnight...
There are no minutes left to run for cover...but that slipper he won't recover...because I'm not deserving of even a daisy...
No prince should want a petty princess...not even one with a fucking glass shoe...
But the clock doesn't wait...the coach is nothing but a pumpkin waiting to be smashed against the baking asphalt and the steed nothing but mice...creatures of the night... varmints without garments....
And the fucking fairy tale was a lie...there is no prince coming. Grow up girl.
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