Fairy tales are bad for girls, they say,
they make you passive,
valuing the wrong kinds of love
but fairy tales are fucking fantastic
evil little men
tear themselves in two when
called by their real name
(hello Rumpelstiltskin, you nasty alt-right incel)
then there’s the man who pipes a tune so catchy
that all the rats go wild and show themselves
in all their blissful filthiness so that we can trample them
stomp on
for this is the good old story
of meanness getting its just deserts
but put on the wrong shoes
those fine red pointed boots
and you’ll dance yourself to death and then I think of that influencer
who, for the sake of his image, couldn’t be photographed sticking his tongue out
just go ahead and dance
go ahead and dance yourself to death
at your own party
in your very own fairy tale
then there’s the golden goose, that sticky bird
the internet among the animals, where emotions are as contagious
as golden feathers, mostly written in capitals and misspelt
and our eyes get welded to the words, like to this poem
and then there’s the witch who whisks you away
to the primeval forest, far from the world and its ideals of beauty
fattens you up with the most delicious food and nobody will know
(hello, body positivity!?)
and okay, Ariel cut her tail in two and lost her voice
for a man, but her sisters sat there singing on the rocks
and let the suckers drown, me too, they gurgled
as they slid below the slippery surface
of a smiling woman
and then again there was
the poisoned apple
the glass coffin
the spinning wheel
the glass slipper
but also:
the wishing-table
the gold-ass and
cudgel in the sack
your mouth is lined with teeth
and you cut your flesh with a knife
not everyone is destined for a crown
but every hand
can take every story
and shred it.
