Reflections

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I.
Her Majesty (the name she writes in her diary)
doesn’t consider herself evil per-say,
though maybe if you divided the women her age in half,
she wouldn’t end up in the nice category.
What caused the mean-leaning personality,
the queen (again, a nickname of her own creation) doesn’t remember.

Maybe her naughty tendencies come
from the ego boost she receives in
being constantly reminded that she’s beautiful.

Maybe from the smothering chivalry of her father,
because that’s what a psychoanalyst would say

Maybe even from the ugly ducking she used to see
staring back at her every day.

It could be all these things, she reasons,
but it’s probably the beast
that sleeps beneath her floorboards.
In all honesty, it’s a little girl’s room
located on the story below that causes such fear.
But the purity and innocence
that she sees reflected in its pearly skin makes her uneasy.
Indeed she’s been terrified of the monstrous child
ever since she set foot in her new husbands house,
and it’s silly really.
Like squealing at the sight of a mouse,
this creature is hardly a threat.
But she may yet become one.

II.
Her greatest fears are coming true,
thinks Her Majesty one day.
She is still assured that her looks
could lay waste to other women’s relationships,
like taking a rose to a weed pageant,
but the little cancer downstairs grows prettier by the hour.
To keep the flower girl from blooming,
she buys an arsenal of brooms and cleaning supplies
to keep the demon occupied.
Unfortunately for the queen,
she didn’t read many fables or indeed anything
save for women’s magazines,
so couldn’t have seen it coming
when she fell victim to her own deceit.
The troglodyte child, instead of breaking her body,
takes on the healthy glow of an elite athlete
and radiates almost as if freshly fallen snow
follows her shadow’s footsteps.
Next step: fatty food.

III.
They say that mirrors do not lie,
that they do not take bribes,
that they will show only the truth
with the minute change of switching left and right.
There are shattered pieces of glass
littering the Queen’s room
like a celebration where dangerous confetti
was thrown to the guests.
Sadly no amount of fragments,
artsy angles, or cakes of makeup
will change the reality that this is a going away party.
Her Majesty calls forth her huntsman and prepares to erase history.

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