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Aurora wakes at 6:30 a.m.—
not to birdsong,
but to the wail of toddlers
and the ache in her knees
from sleeping on the side
that keeps her back from seizing.

Belle flips waffles in a castle-shaped toaster
bought on clearance,
while her Prince snores—
still between jobs,
still “figuring it out,”
still dreaming he’s the Beast
she could learn to love again.

Cinderella works in HR now.
She screens CVs
for foot-shaped gaps,
wondering if the right fit
was ever really a thing.
She’s allergic to glass—
and forgiveness.

Little Red sells vitamins online.
She cut her grandmother’s body down
from a system that never helped her.
Wolves wear cardigans now,
talk equity,
call you “hun.”
They still eat you,
just slower.

Jack climbs stairs in a high-rise.
It’s not a beanstalk,
but the rent is astronomical.
He waters his houseplant
and wonders when
he stopped believing in giants—
or if he ever did.

Rapunzel cut her hair.
It clogged plumbing,
tangled in the vacuum,
got caught in her youngest child’s fist.
She tried yoga,
joined a support group
for women raised
to wait.
She’s learning to leave doors open.

The Big Bad Wolf files taxes yearly,
fears high cholesterol,
takes anger management.
He writes haikus about his youth.
No one reads them.
He wants to be good.
No one lets him.

Goldilocks is a real estate agent.
She walks through homes and says,
“This one’s too cold,”
“This one’s too hard,”
“This one’s just right—if your credit holds up.”
She hasn’t slept in weeks.

Snow White left the dwarfs.
She unionised.
Doc called her “radical.”
Happy got depressed.
Dopey went sober.
Grumpy started therapy.
They don’t speak now.
She teaches night classes
in autonomy and myth.

The fairy godmother
charges by the hour,
doesn’t guarantee results,
won’t return texts
after midnight.

Happily ever after
costs £1,499 a month,
plus council tax and utilities.
It needs groceries,
forgiveness,
and enough sleep
to make it to the next chapter.

Once upon a time,
they promised happy endings—
goodness would shield you,
beauty would save you,
love would be enough.

But this isn’t the end.
It’s the long middle—
where fairy dust
gathers in corners,
and dragons
wear name tags,
asking if you’ve tried turning it off and on again.

No curse to lift,
just the weight
of unpaid bills
and mouths to feed.

Still—
they rise.
No glass slippers,
just cracked heels.
No magic mirrors,
just tired eyes.

The real tale,
the wicked twist,
is that no one is coming.

And still—
they go on.
Not enchanted.
Just enduring.
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