My secret?

The shoe won't fit.

Stand tall, hold your head, let a smile speak.

Stay quiet because princesses don't think. Don't think. Don't think. Don't. Think. Be an empty cup that they refill and refill, but never let spill. 

And the shoe won't fit.

You train and you try, you devote and you die. Little by little the child is chipped and you're a balancing act between plastered ideal and properly insane. 

You arrive, a little too late. You see her dancing on the shoes of fate. His eyes an empty pool locked with hers, a neive little lottery of misogyny. Let spill. Don't speak. Let spill. Hold your head. And the shoe won't fit.

He lost his bride, can't remember her eyes. He held her all night and only remembers her size. The cruel twist? If the shoe fits. 

Let spill. I quit. I'll be her...and the shoe fit.