Cinderella

By Sylvester Wong

They called me sin, all lust, no grace.

My mother’s hips, her harlot’s face.

Spoiled by greed, with idle hands,

A sloth, they claimed, who made no plans.

"You’ll never be more than soot and shame,"

my stepmother spat, with spite in her name.

"Just like your mother, coy and sly,

with pleading lips and wandering eyes."

She never said her name aloud.

My father did, but not so proud.

And when he died, I bore the cost

a bastard child, a daughter lost.

I scrubbed and stitched. I bit my tongue,

dreaming of praise that never came young.

But I read of glass slippers that gleam in light,

of fairy mothers and royal nights.

So, I prayed for change beneath the stars,

for someone kind to see these scars.

Not a prince, just someone real.

Someone who’d ask me how I feel.

No fairy came to stake their claim,

Just sweat and soot, and coals to tame.

The blacksmith near the hollow lane

taught me how to work through pain.

He said, "Strike true. Let steel be shown.

You’ll learn to hold your weight alone."

So I forged, with calloused hands and grit,

and found myself with every hit.

Then one dusk, as embers fell,

a stranger came. His gaze held well.

He saw me not in silk or grace,

but swinging hammers, soot on my face.

I did not know he wore a crown,

until the letter made its round.

A royal seal. A golden crest.

The prince had seen me at my best.

The household scoffed, but now they swore.

I’d steal the crown, then beg for more.

“She burns with envy, starved for praise,

a glutton for a noble’s gaze.”

And that is when the whispers rose:

"She’s just like her whore of a mother, you know."

"They say she tempted him with skin.

A smith’s girl reeks of sweat and sin."

They barred the door. They lit the flame.

Called it justice. Called it shame.

Said they’d cleanse my wicked touch.

"She’ll burn like her mother, since she talks as much."

A guard they hired met his fall.

His torch snuffed out against the wall.

I took his blade. I kicked the grate,

and fought my way through smoke and hate.

They tried to shove me to the pyre,

but I was faster, steel and fire.

I ducked the blow, then swung my blade.

A timber cracked. The rafters swayed.

A spark leapt wild. The curtains caught.

The heat rose fast. They screamed and fought.

I backed away. The smoke drew near.

Their curses rang, then turned to fear.

"Stop this before you damn us all!"

But not once will they hear my call.

I turned and let the fire speak.

No crown, no plea, no mother’s shriek.

The prince arrived to scorched remains,

a manor lost, a home in chains.

But not a foot, nor name, nor plea,

just ashes where a house should be.

They’ll twist the tale, say I beguiled.

That I was wrath, a wicked child.

But I was forged, not made to please.

And I won’t bow to crowns or knees.

I am Sinderella, scorned and tried,

Cast in cinders, forged with pride.

Through ashes I ride, from fire I came,

Not to be tamed, not theirs to name.

By Sylvester Wong