The Contaminated Slipper

The slipper Waits,
a hollow emblem
filled with nothing but the echo
of a foot that wanted escape.

Cinderella lifts it,
not as relic,
but as vessel of error,
a cup where purity curdles.

Glass remembers fingerprints.
Symbols rot when handled.
The ritual holds,
but only because she refuses
to breathe.

A kingdom kneels
before a shoe.
She drinks the silence
to keep the myth intact.

I keep the dryness.
I keep the cruelty.
I keep the contamination.

A belly dancer enters,
not to seduce,
but to measure the air
with the slow geometry of her hips.
Her veil is a warning,
not an invitation.

Cinderella watches.
The slipper dulls.
Symbols bruise when witnessed.

A cannabis lollipop
melts in her hand,
green sugar dripping like
a failed prophecy.
Sweetness is another form
of disobedience.

The dancer circles the slipper.
The lollipop stains the glass.
Ritual collapses
under the weight of
its own choreography.

Cinderella does not move.
She lets the contamination happen.
A kingdom built on purity
deserves a little rot.

The slipper Waits,
a ritual cavity
where kingdoms store their delusions.
Glass bruises at the slightest truth.

Cinderella lifts it,
but the fairy‑tale grammar fractures:
a belly dancer enters,
hips drawing slow geometries of disobedience
in the stale air of the palace.
Her veil is not seduction,
it is indictment.

The cannabis lollipop melts,
green sugar dripping like
a prophecy that refuses to behave.
Intoxication is only another
form of clarity.

The dancer circles the slipper.
The lollipop stains the glass.
Purity curdles.
Symbols choke on their own etiquette.

Cinderella does not intervene.
She lets the contamination spread,
lets the myth inhale its own rot.
A kingdom that worships a shoe
deserves to taste the poison
it calls destiny.

The slipper gleams,
not with magic,
but with the quiet venom
of a truth finally unmasked.