who killed you?

who left your soul bleached
white from a bottle,

paraded you around
high atop your carriage,

and made a skin of lies
for you to wear?

who wrote the script,
choreographed your steps,

designed your costume,
gave you notes,

and showed you pictures
of beauty?

who drew the line,
held the tape,

charted the course
and made the map,

to that which has become
your finishing line?

who told you stories
of princes and princesses,

white knights,
and picket fences,

and did they tell you
that all fences are made,

as rows of swords
to defend?

who told you
you were at war?

who murdered you
with disposable cups,

tales of someday,
a vocabulary of hate,

masked, cracking, brittle, 
like yourself?

do you know
when it was

that the last flakes
of your soul

fluttered away like
ash from a dying fire,

settling on the side of the road,
stirred into the air by passing cars,

and you died?