Desolate Demons

With torn cuticles she pointed toward a spot on the horizon which I couldn't see at all. Somewhere close to the sun.

With bitten nails she scratched her cheek. Not noticing the blood it had drawn until she saw. Strange tongues everywhere. Taking what she'd been losing.

I think I hurt her, but I don't know how I could've avoided it.

Why fret how it left us when we always knew it would. Why lie to ourselves and say it changed us, when clearly, it was us who changed it.

She never worse a gown. Never lost a slipper. But still she'd always been waiting on her happily ever after.

How could this sight be so right when I do everything I can to make it wrong.

Strange how she cries, but never sheds a tear.

He saw her once. That first time. And couldn't look again.

Desolate with demons.

So sure they were his friends.