I'm wondering when
these words will turn into pumpkins
falsehoods delivered on glass slippers
set to disappear come midnight
come some arbitrary truth
made of me
and delivered by me
unto me
as if the failure to produce them
would render me less than I am
a flirtation with disaster
with a self
determined by a series of definitions
meanings scrounged from syllables
scrounged from fairy tales
that never ended happily ever after
until we rewrote them that way
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