3 am on this chilly night in France,
It’s the witching hour, they say
But to me, it’s simply the hour that all is silent and I can best hear
the delicate sounds of my heart hitting the concrete floor and becoming nothing.
Cinderella, Cinderella
3 am is when I take the time to walk up the stairs and wring my pillowcase out into the bathtub.
Cry me a river, they say.
Well, I cried myself a baptism and I am patiently waiting for you
to come and hold my head under whilst you scream your discontent
upon my ears filled with nothing but my salty tears.
Cinderella, Cinderella
3 am is when I get to be the victim and nobody is around
to tell me that I’m playing the sheep when I know that I was the wolf.
I will try to do anything I can to romanticize this feeling of worthlessness
Cinderella, Cinderella.
Sweep the floors, clean the chimney, wash the grates.
Broken, we could see you'd never be broken,
Your soul, your spirit, your glow.
Warmth surrounds you like the sun is inside you,
You leave behind a trail of light wherever you go.
Still, the chill on my heart
You could penetrate not.
Cinderella, Cinderella.