When I was a kid, 

I was told stories. 

In a tower, there was a locked-up princess

and there came her prince, 

fought a dragon 

and saved her. 

The Prince fought. 

The Princess didn't. 


And I used to dream 

of long hair and flowing dresses, 

of dark-celled towers and one-sided fights,

of perfect princes and fire-breathing dragons. 

Of being saved. 


When I grow up, 

I will tell a story 

to any kid who'll listen 

In a tower, there was a locked-up princess,

and in the neighboring cell 

was a locked-up prince. 


He was not the 'perfect' prince, 

dark skinned 

and bright-eyed, 

who shed tears when scared 

instead of choking on them 

to be a 'superior' man. 


She was not the 'perfect' princess,

with crooked teeth 

and a beautiful heart, 

whose flowing gown, 

instead of a corset, 

hid an unladylike sword. 


They were imperfect. 

Just like everything else that exists. 


They were imperfect. 

And that imperfection is what 

made them less surreal.

They got on their feet 

and escaped. 

Faced with the dragon, 

an obstacle, 

they drew their swords. 


Fighting ensued. 

They fell. 

They broke. 

They fell apart. 


And then, 

with some help, 

from each other and from within,

they put their pieces together,

they pushed the ground, 

and stood back up. 


He fought. 

She fought. 

They fought. 



The victory came with time 

and they wore their scars as medals,

as badges of their conquest

Over the dragon. 

Over the tower. 

Over their fear. 


The Prince saved the Princess.

The Princess saved the Prince. 

And in the end, 

They saved Themselves.