snow white

once upon a time,

in a kingdom

(not so far away),

there lived a pretty

little daughter

and a pretty

little stepmother

and a pretty

little father.

the daughter wore white

that was pale as the moon,

and her skirts

flew about

when

she ran.



the stepmother's own dress

was flat

and dull,

so she grew jealous of the daughter

and decided to kill her.

one day,k when the daughter

was in her

pretty little skirt

that flew when

she ran,

her stepmother came moaning

and crying to her.

"it's so cold in here,"

sobbed mother,

"and your father is too content

with the colors of the maids

to be enamored with our snowy plumes."

and the pretty little daughter

said:

"i will pick you some flowers".

and off she went,

unplucked,

dazzling in her skirts

that danced when

she ran.



while she was picking

a sweet bundle of dragons

and lions

and bells,

her pretty

little stepmother

hired forth a hunter

to handle the whiteness

of her dancing

when

she ran.



and find her he did:

with breeches undone

and claws grasping,

he curled her cloth up on to balls,

creasing them with sweat,

and turned off all the music

while he hiked up all her skirts.



stricken with a fear,

the pretty

little daughter

took her hairpin from her head

and stabbed it

deep into his ugly

little heart.

it clanged like a gunshot.

with her dress all wrinkled

and wilted,

she dropped all of her flowers

and went running off to the woods,

sobbing like a willow

as her eyes shut

when

she ran.

the hunter went on home

to his ugly

little wife

and their ugly

little children;

all their hearts were matching

and, in turn,

so was their sex.



now off in the woods

with her dress

and hairpin melted,

the daughter

found a house

where she was sure

that she could rest.

instead,

a knock revealed,

from the centers of the womb,

seven little men

who had pretty

little hearts.

and they said

"queen and king's daughter,

you are welcome in our house,

but only if your skirts dance--"

and they did,

and so

she ran.



she ran

from cold cream, kindness,

and the hats on their heads:

like a group of hooded figures,

each hooded

little man

had one.

but they called after her sweetly

and they promised her a room,

if only she could cook

instead of making

her skirts fly.



for two years she stayed with them:

this pretty

little daughter

whose skirts bellowed when

she ran.



and one day,

when stepmother found

the daughter was alive

by witnessing the hole

in the hunter's ugly

little heart,

a hag came to the door

of the house

of the seven

little men,

all of them off to work:

it was, indeed, the pretty

little stepmother.

she came with snowy ribbons

made to match the daughter's dress

and asked if she would one:

the daughter nodded "yes".



so in her little basket

the "hag" pulled out a thread

and some ribbon

which was glowing

like a soon-imploding star.

the pretty

little stepmother

smiled the sweetest way

and laced up the daughter's corset,

pulling tight in to the bodice,

compressing every breath

until the girl fell down to the floor

from her lungs being empty.

then the pretty

little stepmother

wound the thread through

a needle;

with greatest care,

she sewed fabric to skin,

until she was sure the pretty

little daughter's

skirt

would not blow

when

she ran.



and off,

the "hag"!

she ran.



upon coming home

and finding their sweet friend

suffocated,

blue,

and lifeless on the floor,

the seven little men

hung their ugly

little heads

and made the daughter

a coffin of pure lead.



for though some stories say

they made her a bed of glass,

these stories

do not tell

how the pretty

little daughter's

skirts once blew when

she ran.

despite her pretty

little face

and dress of blinding white,

she was useless to them now.

(oh, what happened to their pretty

little hearts?)



forever in a dark box

the daughter now sleeps:

dead, and without dreams.

with legs sewn together

like a common

punished whore,

the thread holds tight the skirts

that once danced when

she ran.

somehwere in the walls,

though her skirts no longer blow, the

snow white daughter

cries alone

when

she runs.



--K

Author's Notes/Comments: 

A retelling of "Snow White". My version is much darker, but I personally find it a bit more realistic, especially considering the 1950's views on women.

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