The blackbird sings, can you hear it?
The telly fed me the propaganda. Of princesses and princes.
Damsels in distress. Knights in shining armour. That was
Love. It was always a man and a woman; perfect, no flaws.
In spring, blackbirds sing outside my window;
Males calling the females. But one blackbird remains silent.
It watches me. It doesn’t sing for a mate like all the other
Spring lovers; it sits in the tree and waits.
I watch a programme where two men kiss. The blackbird
Tells me this is wrong. I ask it why. It doesn’t respond.
It follows me to school. I think another girl is pretty;
My heart flutters when our hands brush. The blackbird
Trills loudly. I never look at her again.
When I see someone reading a book where two girls are
In love, I point to the blackbird and tell her this is wrong.
She asks me why I think this. I say I don’t really know.
I kiss a girl. It s me up. They don’t do this on the telly;
That’s not how the story is supposed to go.
I try to ignore her after, but I struggle to pull my eyes away.
The blackbird sits outside the window and dares me.
I kiss her again. I don’t feel so ed up this time.
She says we should be together. I look to the blackbird,
Who doesn’t say a word, and say yes. Sometimes,
Princesses don’t need princes; just another princess.
That night, the blackbird sings again
But, this time, I finally understand what it says.
It says my life matters, despite what the telly shows.
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