It’s not always *****
And glass slippers
Handsome gloved fingers impeccably asking for
Just one dance
There aren’t always fairies with good intentions
And neatly pressed dresses
Popping out from
Rose bushes while you cry to
A mother grave
Sometimes dirt under fingernails
Doesn’t come off
Sometimes you learn to live by
Snatching crusts thrown in
Hot fires so you
Reach in to hunger
And come out with scarred fingers covered in ashes
Chores are not always performed
By animated, peeping creatures
And instead you know their presence in the dark as
Whispered tails run over your ratty hem
It’s not always a fairy-tale
Sometimes you sing harshly
To the tune of a whip on your back
As the words
**** from the cinders
Ring in your ears
But sometimes clever fingers steal material
Working late into the night
And pacts made with older Magic’s
Help you bewitch a prince so he sees
Only you
And sometimes you get to watch blood fall
On your wedding dress as your tormentors eyes
Are plucked out by winged doves
And you do feel happy
In the sunlight
Until in the dark, again
Hands run over you, whispering then
Biting like the rats
And you realize, lying back
That you have traded one form of servitude
For another
And happily-ever-after has
Only just begun.