They said it would be magical,

the summer carnival rolling into town—

cotton candy clouds and laughter spinning

on the Ferris wheel against the sunset.

You were innocent then,

twelve years old with coins clutched tight,

eyes wide at the painted signs promising

Wonder! Thrills! Step Right Up!

It’s all fun and games, your mother said,

handing you a twenty-dollar bill,

kissing your forehead like a blessing,

like a ward against the coming dark.

You bought the ticket at the crooked booth

where the barker’s smile was too wide,

his teeth too white, his voice honey-sweet

as he stamped your wrist with ink that wouldn’t wash.

Enjoy the show, little miss. No refunds.

But you’d already bought the ticket

and there’s no going back now—

the tent flap closes behind you like a mouth,

swallowing the daylight whole.

Inside, the air tastes wrong,

metallic and thick, like pennies and fear.

The music box plays off-key,

a waltz for broken dolls and forgotten things.

The first act is harmless enough:

a juggler dropping balls that crack like eggs,

a tightrope walker who never quite falls,

a magician pulling rabbits that scream.

You laugh because everyone else is laughing,

but the sound sticks in your throat

like sawdust, like smoke, like the knowledge

that something here is not quite right.

The second act is when it changes—

when the innocent girl (was that you?)

steps into the spotlight’s hungry glare

and the audience begins to cheer.

It’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt,

and you realize too late

that the someone was always going to be you,

that the game was rigged from the start.

The fortune teller’s cards spell out your name.

The hall of mirrors shows you things you’ll become.

The carousel horses have eyes that follow,

and their painted mouths whisper stay, stay, stay.

You run for the exit but the tent is bigger now,

stretching like taffy, like nightmares, like time

moving backward through syrup and shadow—

and your wrist still burns with that permanent stamp.

Outside, your mother is waiting by the car,

checking her watch, wondering what took so long.

You’re only gone for seven minutes

but inside, you lived a lifetime.

How was it? she asks, and you open your mouth

but the words come out wrong,

taste like carnival dust and regret—

It was fine. It was magical. It was fun.

Because you already bought the ticket

and there’s no going back now,

no way to unlearn what the tent showed you,

no way to wash the ink from your skin.

That night you’ll dream of the barker’s smile,

the way he knew you’d come back,

the way all innocent girls eventually do,

drawn like moths to the carnival’s sick light.

It’s all fun and games,

they’ll tell the next girl,

the one who’ll clutch her coins

and step up to the crooked booth.

And you’ll want to warn her,

want to grab her wrist and show the stain,

but the words won’t come—

you’re part of the show now.

You already bought the ticket.

There’s no going back.