I suppose the mirror told you
That I was alive if you can call
This living. You were the last
Person that I was expecting.

I wonder whose heart he brought home
And what heroic story he spun.
Did he meet some poor peasant
On the forest path and wait
Until her back was turned or did he find
Something that was already dead and hack
Its heart out, puking everywhere, and
Thanking God that his hands were clean
And his conscience as clear as spring water
As if he hadn’t already fucked me over
By leading me into this foul, dark place?

I’ll bet he turned as pale as a geisha girl
When the mirror gave us both away.
Ha bloody ha – how did he dig himself
Out of that great big hole?

And I don’t much care that you’re at my door
Hammering like a fiend at the wood
With a knife in your hand instead
Of the nice, juicy apple and seven little men
And my prince dead in your wake.
You’re wasting your breath. There’s
Nobody home. Take a walk across the lawn,
Look in the lovely glass-house. Look
At all the flowers and cards my mourners left
Before you so rudely slaughtered them.
And for God’s sake, shut up.
My dreams are so sweet now.
I think I have earned my eternal rest.