Cinderella's Wicked Fairytale

The beast in the mirror stared back at Ela with a different personality now. She saw its bleak eyes glistened lively in violent delight. Its tight lips were pulled up into a seemingly genuine smile. Its demons morphed into an angel's deceiving face. She witnessed how it shifted into a princess; how the talons shrank into beautifully filed nails; how its soul's darkness was strategically buried skin-deep. It was a magical transformation but with the same intent to kill. The afire hope was burned into despair. All magic turned dark. Rainbows were painted black, white and crimson. And all innocence was taken away. It was a hot afternoon that no matter how she willed herself to bury the memory deep in the darkest recesses of her mind, it would still resurface to drag her back to that most inoportune time-when death came for her. At an early age, Ela already understood how fairytales could get ugly, rotten, and twisted. She knew it well, because she had the most wicked story of all. Reap and sharpen the blade to its tip, reap, No reservations, just a clock to beat, Whispers on air, requiems for the dead, Emptied and filled, a sin for all they bled. Agony is a lithe vine with its thorns, Slithers the heart, never wails, never mourns, On the prowl, the hunter will never speak, Splotches of blood that the princess will seek. Reaper sings, 'mirror, mirror on the wall', Tonight when someone receives Ela's call, She will make sure, that someone will fall. When prey's near, he'll never know, never hear, She will have fun while he is in fear, Before she strikes and gets his life so dear.