opaque

I can give you the image.

Here, the prince, in his dress shirt,

white, tucked in, black pants, black vest,

purple bowtie. Simply smashing. Incredibly proper.

Not a scuff to be seen on the dashing shoes.

I can give you the emotion.

He smiled, she smiled, and the

queens laughed together. It was like

a fairytale, a very good one where we

danced all the time, and no dragons

came to burn down the village.

I can give you the scenery.

They stood in front of the white walls,

and smiled, and everyone smiled, and

then they climbed into the carriage. And the 

world opened up before them. It was beautiful.

I can give you the words, too. But then you would have

two princesses and a set of doting mothers and a bunch

of people who love you, but not really for you, and not in the way

you want, because you can smush your breasts against your chest

painfully, and you can pull on your gentlemens' wear, and gel up your

short hair... You can do everything right. But you'll still get called "baby girl,"

and you'll still hear "her," and "she," and worst of all, "daughter."

And that sucks. Especially when you already have the internal monologue

of your body screaming "girl," and your mind screaming "boy."

The prince parked the carriage

and heaved his breath from his chest,

and his heart dropped, and his feet hurt, and

he wanted to say so badly, "I am a prince."

He wanted to break his father's heart in a single motion,

to be far too truthful for a slight moment, and he

wanted this selfishly.

But he didn't.

Someday, he will.