We've Never Read About Two Princesses by Molly Smith

Once upon a time there had lived a princess in love with another. One wrote a book about journeys she took, but the Urselas ripped out its words

It was red and it bled vacancy throughout our lesson plans. They’d rather have seen my friends and I bleed than to know the red on their hands.

It was orange and it was citrus made to fuel above the heat When they stuck with their mocking and banned us from talking, we would yearn for more vitamin D.

It was yellow and it shone its light where we wanted to be if it happened. We would break our new pens and study ‘til 10 hopping 10-year-late trains to Manhattan

It was green ‘cause it knew it had always been ready and blinking to tell them to go They never opened eyes to responsibly drive or listen and get it and know.

It was blue from its cutouts, its rips, and its scribbles and time spent on one hidden shelf The shelf was built by the senate, “different time back then” generations, that deemed it not fit for much else

It turned purple because they had wanted that They took floors so their words could reach far. They aren’t people who share They aren’t people who care. They just can’t have us know who we are

Who reads the writer and who writes the reader? Is it us as our fighters or them we call “speakers?”