I am sick and tired of these ideals.
Princesses don't do this and princesses don't do that.
As future queen you must this and as future queen you must that.
I sit by with a plastic smile
Nodding with feigned interest in these matters that do not matter to me,
Hoping, praying, someone will take notice and ask me what's wrong or at least for my opinion.
I'm just a pretty face in the patriarchal round table.
Because obviously when the king dies, all rights go to my male cousin,
Who honestly, does not have a single drop of royal blood in him, and not to me
Because someone who plays some strange game
On some strange device he calls a laptop is more fit to rule than I am.
Because the pure blood royal who's been living in Pthfou her whole life
And knows kingdom relations better than anyone sitting at that damn table
Is apparently "unfit" to rule.
Yet they still put me through all this grueling training for my future ruling that does not exist
Just for me to sit not even at the round table but in the corner of the room and not exist,
Listening to these men bicker about inconsequential matters.
I am done.
My presence doesn't matter.
My mother must be looking down in fury but she can't do anything about it.
My father would be his usual indifferent self coaxing me in that sugarcoated voice:
"Let the men handle it."
Because apparently women are just objects of lust
Who are too stupid to do anything else besides birth children and fold laundry.
Fine. If that's what you want.
An object of lust is it?
I'll show you.
YOU ARE READING
Fairytales
PoetryA story about overcoming loss and that believing in hope is never always in vain. This poetry collection is written with alternating perspectives that eventually blend together to form a story of constant heartbreak.
