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  • Writer's pictureKayley Taylor


Watching the classics with my children, the thought struck a little too close to home. As fantastical impossible things have become the tyrant queen of reality this year, a once magical dream turns nightmare. Why so often does an act of the heart lead to the loss of one's head? Teardrops that could fill oceans fall upon teacup merry-go-rounds twirling in the currents, ever so slowly sinking. The disguise of a gentle downfall anchors hope to an ocean floor of quicksand. Drowning while still breathing air has never before sounded so comforting, a melody that echoes with false securities. A home of warm blankets still perfectly masquerading, you never feel the tangled threads of toxic suffocation, until it is too late. Lulled in by the lies of a friend who makes you miss your enemies, so very much. Anger brews into bitterness with such a sour bite, a buffet of buttered crumpets and strawberry jam couldn't sweeten tea time. Tabletops made of splinters gore the beautiful canvas of petticoats and clockwork as it ticks one last time. The wildflower you are seeds only weeds without wishes, and no bed of roses will ever welcome your individuality into their folds. Words grow thorns hardened by a drought so intense the mouth forgets the taste of water, replaced by battlefields of dirt. Wounds flow freely, life leaves you bare, the hurt excrutiating. Only to stain the ground with crimson red paint where the tyrant queen plays croquet with matchsticks upon your heart. Setting fire to the memory of you, another once upon a time erased from the storybooks, in exchange for the empty glory of a rabbit hole...

If we are to fall, then shall we fall up?

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