Chocolate buttons (Snow White on the psychiatric ward) by Catrin Mari

A large tree in the middle of green woodland. Large white text reads: Chocolate Buttons. Smaller text reads: Discussing disabled characters in fairy tales and folklore.

Like birdseed, a sequinned
gown,
 
They would glitter them into the crowd each year around Christmas time.
 
 It was your smear- fingered -smile
 Little treat. We curled our tiny bodies into the ruby- lip
 slippered red
 of those opulent seats, sat tight as a bow. We savoured the buttons up…
 
Hush,
now let us
begin.
 
Slam
      
        Searing
 
 Black.
 
That gunshot
 spike
crack was the very worst sound of my life. I wanted to shred
shed 
 
wolf
peel
at my skin. Wings
battling uselessly into the wax of
lights.
 
You're a hunted animal. Fresh.
screams, fever, green
 gaping horror-mouthed memories
 bashing again and again and again and again at the walls.
 
Trapdoor.
Claw.
 
After a while, you know the hot scent
of desperation. It's the ugly, stubborn snarl of curled fag smoke.
 
If you want a light, you always, always, always have to ask them, even though you can hear them: their
crabapple
laughs
crackle,
 
vines
 choke at your ankles
 along the whole sterile length
 of the aisle.
 
Snare, trap, flare.
You're cored.
 
You can no longer bear the sight of them. You shrivel in the corner and lick at
your wounds.
 
Fawn and
Freeze.
 
Retreat, curl up and
Dry.
 
Eventually,
you don't even recognise
 your own white face. You are definitely not today
 
The fairest, fairest…
 
Each nightfall, animated eyes
 blare in this hunter's wood. They watch, watch, watch
Watch. Your hair witches with time.
You hold out your finger not for a ring, but for yet another bite
 
of heat and blood;
  Your body spread out on a slab.
 
 Be good
 
or they won't let you out…
 
Gasp down
 
 til you bloat
  leak
 and weep
     like a frog.
 
It's not real, it's not real. It's not real…
 
Now
 you're encased
into tall ivied
walls. What you know
 is that they long to return the lush butchered prize
of your heart.
 
who even is the villain
Anymore?
 
One night,
someone pads. tears at the plastic with fangs-
and there's that familiar sweet purple glint once more.
It's winking at you:
 royal
like a cloak.

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About the author: 
I'm an autistic social researcher based in Cardiff with a passion for heritage and museums. I also live with chronic eczema. I use poetry to engage people with research, and I am inspired by connections between artists and their work as well as interpreting well-known histories and stories from fresh perspectives, or uncovering under-appreciated historic figures and the tales they can tell.