Pedestals of Glass can Always be Broken

You prop your fairy princess on a pedestal of porcelain
and pluck out her voice with fat thumbs.
For your delight, she spins and mesmerizes.
Sees nothing. Says nothing.
She leaves her mask in place to fool you,
a harp playing to lull you beneath
the folds of her skirt, head first into her trap.
She ties a gold ribbon around your neck and
leads you into a field of whispering chrysanthemums.
She will show you her face when the music stops.
You kneel on fiery petals and close your eyes,
longing for the soft caress of her gaze,
believing you have stolen her grit and her teeth.
Seconds before the quiet fills your lungs,
she sneaks out the back door,
sheds her skin of glass and bites down hard on the air.