On writing: Cinderella. Or so she thought.

Of cinders and ashes and broken promises

Of love or hate, apathy or pain

Of hope or moving on, of staying still or letting go

How does one really know what to do? 

The once glittery carriage has turned into pumpkin

I should have known, it’s not a fairytale I am livin’

Where princes turn into frogs and start breaking your heart

Where princesses are just maids wishing for a new start.

I am in a pumpkin-arsed carriage still looking for salvation.

How do I look up when I know that

I am no Cinderella after all.