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.