In stories where evils dawn 

upon innocent princesses,

where motherly sins and

fairy godmothers come 

together like swords and 

shields, it is black and white. 

Characters are confined

to labels of good and bad,

unknowingly weighed down

by the judgemental eyes 

of storytelling mothers

and their young.

Rapunzel. Her sunrise  

hair and infectious heart 

of gold won the readers, 

making her the friend, while 

her witch of a mother, 

a foe. Stained in her 

own blood of sins, Mother

Gothel succumbed to 

the might of this 

inevitable fate. 

Cinderella, who was 

blessed with the looks 

of an angel, served as a 

maid under our pitying 

eyes. While step sisters

that made demands 

like undying alarms, each 

longing for the prince’s love, 

lay victim to the biased 

nature of grimm’s creations. 

But when evil turns good,

who do you choose to love?

Or perhaps they were good 

to begin with.

Good even after that one 

night, when you left the

front door ajar leaving 

just your knocked heels

and the scent of lingering 

rum. It led me to your room, 

where your stiff satin dress 

sags lazily beside your 

bed — a corpse of the day’s

endless phone calls and 

yells from your tyrannical

boss. Beside this rotting 

grave, lay a flowerbed of 

crumpled tissues and 

scattered papers. 

When I entered your 

cage of steel that night, 

you welcomed me 

with your hugs and kisses. 

Your touches travel like 

bramble, bleeding puddles

of stinging greens and 

palm shaped rouge 

across my body.  

The melodic tune 

of your amplified words 

reminded me of the mother 

you used to be to me. 

When your luminescence 

burned in the dead of night, 

and when your touches 

felt like blankets of warmth. 

How I yearned for the days

when love did not come at 

the expense of security. 

When love wasn’t a transaction. 

But even when you’ve left me 

with your lithified comments

and your caustic caresses, 

my ambivalence to you 

makes me yearn for the

good I see in your malice.