the tilt

It happens suddenly—

the world tilts forward,

and the fairy tale cracks.

Little girls—

soft-bellied, starlit things—

do not stay little forever.

They wander into the wrong stories,

the locked rooms,

the hush-filled halls.

They meet wolves with father-faces,

tongues of flame,

hands that rewrite

the rules of girlhood.

Silenced,

stitched shut,

taught to smile

while burning.

But some girls—

scorched, not destroyed—

learn to live in the fire.

They shape-shift:

witch, wildling, witness—

too ruined to be pure,

too radiant to be owned.

They rise,

ash-laced and unholy,

a thousand phoenixes

with names they gave themselves.

They birth gods.

They build railroads

under the empire’s skin.

They hold the bleeding world together

with blistered hands.

Given only roles cast in shadow—

whore, witch, crone—

They crown themselves

and come back

not to forgive,

but to reclaim.

To raze.

To reign.