They say princesses are poised.
Porcelain skin, scarred by none.
Soft hands and soft hearts
And a steadfastly permanent mask
Of court ruled tranquility.

They say princesses are beautiful.
Smooth hair and gliding feet.
A back straightened by generations of
Tight lipped aristocrats,
Scolding slumped shoulders with disapproving frowns.

And the one thing every princess has
Is a set of cornflower blue eyes.
Never story, like an ocean.
Never dark, like the night sky.
Eyes of summer skies and still reflections.

One day I met a girl
With skin not of porcelain, but rough like sandpaper.
Her hair flew with the breeze
And her shoulders often folded in on themselves.

Her eyes were not of skies, they were of suns.
They were sparked from hellfire.
And tore through masks like they were of paper.
Her eyes were dark,
All reflections lost.

Her feet didn't glide,
They crushed
And left a wake of destruction
Never slowing, never looking back.

She was a sun.
She was a storm.
She was a princess.