The Funeral for Fairy Tales

Today we bury happily ever after

in a shallow grave beside the tracks.

No eulogy, no flowers, no laughter—

just the sound of illusions breaking their backs.

I came to mourn the Prince Charming lie,

the myth that rescue rides a white horse,

the fantasy that someone from the sky

descends to save you as a matter of course.

But the ground was already occupied

by the bones of those who waited too long,

who traded their power for a promise,

who believed in rescue over being strong.

So I dance on the grave of expectation,

spit on the tombstone of "someday,"

and walk away from the fairy-tale station

toward the dawn of my own damn way.

No glass slipper, no magic wand,

no kiss from a stranger to make me whole—

just the calloused hands of experience

and the fierce rhythm of my own soul.

The funeral's over. The fairy tales are dead.

Good. Now we can begin.

The real story starts where you are,

not where you wish you'd been.