Bedtime Story

She always preferred the morbid
fairy tales. Skeletal ships creeping
through dead, misty seas.
An evil queen dancing
in iron shoes, white with heat. The scent
of burning skin and pleading, pain-dulled
eyes. The older sisters who invariably meet
with premature death, their reward
for common enough vices. Evidence
of vindictive authors.
Bluebeard was a favorite.
She turned the pages hungrily, disappointed
by heroic rescues and delighted when,
in occasional fits of unconventionality,
characters were left miserable,
Abandoned. Alone.
What is the point
of a story
that does not resemble reality?
She whispered this to her cat, who twitched
his ears attentively, before licking one
feathery paw.