It was probably inevitable
that Cinderella held on to her mops,
and, even when queen and venerable,
she would sport accoutrements from thrift shops.
And all she ever had to talk about
was her history of family abuse,
but she just never seemed to work it out;
the royal therapists were of no use.
And in her mind, she’s still belle of the ball,
though she walks assisted by a glass cane,
and Fairy-God-Mother has ceased to call,
driven away by Cin’s own bitter reign.
And every midnight she wakes with a start
and listens in darkness to her own heart.
 
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