My fingernails are small. No, not short, they’re small, like a child’s. But they’re sturdily sunk into your skin. It suddenly smells of chocolate. Or is it brownies?
So? Fairy tales? Don’t whisper, shout, so that the whole world can hear! You say you don’t. And that your disenchantment with stories and their promised happy endings has reached a new high. Of course you believe. You love those happy endings and while you’re rooting for the good guys, you’re secretly hoping the evil queen finds herself a handsome Prince Charming of herself who can melt her heart, too.
My fingernails are staying right where they are. I’m not letting go, not till you admit. To everything. To all the things you don’t want them to find out. That you still believe in fairy tales. And love.