Don’t call me a princess. Treat me like your Queen.

I have my own horse. I don’t want to ride on the back of yours.

Give me a cowboy hat instead of a tiara and work alongside me in the sun as it shades my face.

Don’t coddle my ideas; just respect them. And challenge them. Don’t be afraid to call me out when you think I’m wrong, as long as you can admit when you are.

With your hands, build me a throne of steel and strong timber, useful and beautiful. Save the diamonds and gold so we can buy freedom.

Weave a train for me of morning glories and daisies, not fine silk that is easily torn. Better yet, clothe me in denim and wool and send me out to my work.

Expect me to carry my weight: in intellect as well as in physical strength.

Appreciate my beauty but celebrate my strength and honor my wisdom.

I don’t want pink champagne and tarts. I want steak and whiskey. Raw and neat.

Take me to bed as an equal, as if you worship me. I am not fragile.

Let’s build our castle together, with dreams and stone.

I am a Queen. I decide if you’re worthy. You can’t convince me or sell me; I already know the truth. My mind and my heart are my compass and my friends. Get along with them, and you’ll get along with me.

I am no princess.


**dedicated to the man who demands that I walk like a queen and learn to save myself.