Poetry

Ever After

She’s found the one, on whom she can depend.

So he bows his head, to meet her pretty pout,           

and in the twilight they kiss, no failings or doubts.

But what’s after ever after, when the credits end?

Sex stops, rows start. No reasons to pretend.

And what about the handsome Prince; he’s out,

charming that smug slut Sophie from accounts.

While I’m alone in bed, boredom descends

My stench is of sour breast milk and sick,

tits ravaged by angry purple ravines.

Too tired to be pretty, graceful, polite.

This is ever after, happily following his prick.

While I gripe and steam, the man of my dreams

turns his back to me in the dark; goodnight.

Maisie-May Lambert