Once upon a time, we painted a treehouse. Together, in the backyard, we climbed up to it and wrote down magic spells, used fake names, and designed ourselves to be Purple Princesses. You had to convince me of this fact, as I was opposed to all things feminine, but once you explained that we were warrior princesses, that we fought for ourselves and we didn’t need anyone to save us, I conceded. Warrior princess it was. 

Even after you returned home, I’d go into that treehouse and make those spells. The wings of a faerie, the tip of a unicorn’s horn, frog’s blood. All mashed together in a pile on the wood, made up of pinecone shavings, various leaves, and a glob of spit. It was going to grant me invincibility. 

We moved a lot after that, from one state to another, leaving behind the treehouse and the spells and the memories. I didn’t think about our warrior princesses for a long while, and I wonder if you forgot about them, too. If at some point, you stopped believing in the spells, if you stopped believing that you had your own sword. I think you found yourself trapped by the dragon of toxic religion and found yourself too indoctrinated to escape. No matter the abuse, no matter the violence, the bruises, the self-loathing you endured, you swore to yourself and those around you, that a good princess would remain by the dragon. That was your duty in life, even when I watched you change beneath his fire, even as I watched him put you in a cage. 

When I was in high school, I discovered something called a fursona. A budding artist as I was, I had a hard time drawing humans, and decided to make myself out of an animal – a mashup of my favorite animals, no less. I sketched her design and considered the colors and her name as I opened a new layer in my canvas. 

I remembered the treehouse, the purple princesses, our names. And so that became me, my public face, Sorlina. The purple hybrid of tiger and lion and cheetah. The warrior princess. 

She was, at first, without her mane. She had small tufts of it grown out around her cheeks, but nothing more, as she shaved it down and kept it under control. And while I enjoyed her design, I found myself watching you, and watching you crack. No matter what I did, what I said, I could not remind you that you were capable of saving yourself. That this dragon did not need to hold you hostage. But it cornered you with verses and hymns and condemnation. You could not escape. 

Over time, I grew disconnected from Sorlina, from the creature I designed to represent me. I found it hard to find joy in drawing her, when she was created in a time so divorced from the present. The name came from childhood, the design from a time of indoctrination, and now what? I sat in an awkward place of leaving all that behind me. Of stepping out of the vicious church that told me and my siblings that we would go to hell for who we did and did not like, for who we are, for being different from them. I found myself looking at the cross on Sorlina’s shoulder and wondering how I could bear that on my sona for any longer, when that mark wasn’t even going to accept me. I looked at you. Once upon a time, you said that you were someone safe, someone who I could tell anything to without you ratting me out to my family. I thought, maybe, I could come out to you. I could tell you how I was feeling. Even trapped by a dragon, we had a pact. We made spells. We became warriors together. 

But one day, you spoke with my mother. And you agreed the gays had a vicious, indoctrinating agenda to pervert the kids.

I wanted to throw it all away that night. I wanted to make a new sona, tear myself from you, from the dragon, from everything that had once been. But I peered at the art I made of Sorlina, of myself. The art that helped me express myself, that helped me show my pride in my accomplishments, and I knew I couldn’t kill her. She was part of me. 

So why not let her hair grow out? 

It started with a sketch, and then more, and further. A sheet of sketches with Sorlina’s mane thick and full. And the joy I felt, the elation of seeing her fully able to express herself, fully capable of being herself, made me realize that she had reflected me more than I realized. She had been cutting her hair, restricting herself, because I was doing the same thing. I was holding myself back. But now I step out in faith. I step out, knowing that the mark on my shoulder, the cross against my fur, is something I can claim. I know that my siblings and I are not demonic, are not evil, are not wrong. I know that a dragon cannot contain me, and cannot stop me from loving myself. I know this, even if it means I have to leave you behind.

Once upon a time, I made a potion of invulnerability. And you did not.