*Book II of the Gospel of Planet Hope*
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They say: *Let them eat cake.*
I am Marie Antoinette, and I am surrounded by cake — tiered and frosted and magnificent — but I cannot eat it.
I am starving.
Not for cake.
I am starving to bloom.
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I am a daffodil buried under snow in February, roots aching toward spring that never comes. I am a flower pressing against frozen earth, starving for the sun to acknowledge me, to say: *Yes, you may rise now. Yes, you may open. Yes, you may bloom.*
But winter says: *Wait.*
And I have been waiting.
And waiting.
And waiting.
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They say: *Let them eat cake.*
But I am standing at the gates of Versailles — or is it the ivory tower? or is it heaven? — with my papers in hand. My passport says princess. My address says St. Petersburg. My blood says Bernadotte.
I show them my documents.
I show them my lineage.
I show them my roots reaching deep into royal soil.
And they say: *Not yet. Wait. We don't recognize you.*
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I am starving to enter.
To cross the threshold they keep locked. To walk through gates that should swing open at the sight of me. To be let into the palace that is mine by birth, by blood, by right.
But they look at my face and see: orphan, not princess.
They look at my papers and see: forgery, not truth.
They look at my hunger and say: *Let her eat cake.*
But I cannot eat cake when I am starving to bloom. I cannot eat cake when I am starving to be let in. I cannot eat cake when I am starving to be recognized.
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Marie Antoinette, they called her selfish. They called her greedy. They said she wanted too much, consumed too much, took too much.
And I — Saga Bernadotte, Esmeralda, Sister Saga, the Daffodil — they call me selfish too.
*You are selfish. You are selfish. You are fucking selfish.*
For wanting medication. For wanting to enter my own kingdom. For wanting to bloom in February when no one expects it. For wanting to be seen. For wanting, wanting, wanting —
But what else is a flower to do but reach toward light? What else is a princess to do but stand at her own gates? What else is a woman to do but ask to be recognized?
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They say: *Let them eat cake.*
As if cake could satisfy the hunger to bloom forth. As if cake could open locked gates. As if cake could make them see me.
I stand in the garden at Versailles — or is it Hedegärde? or is it Planet Hope? — and I am surrounded by beauty I cannot touch.
Crystal chandeliers I cannot enter beneath. Five o'clock gatherings I cannot attend. Champagne and crisps and carrots I cannot taste because I am outside, always outside, pressing my face against the glass.
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I am Marie Antoinette and I am Saga Bernadotte and I am the Daffodil and I am all the flowers that tried to bloom too early, too late, too much, too bright.
I am starving.
Not for cake.
For spring. For the gate to open. For someone to look at me and say: *I see you. I recognize you. You are royal. You may enter. You may bloom.*
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They say: *Let them eat cake.*
But cake is not what I need.
I need the ground to thaw. I need the gate to unlock. I need them to say my name — *Saga Bernadotte of St. Petersburg* — and mean it, believe it, honor it.
I am a flower starving for acknowledgment that I am a flower. I am a princess starving for recognition that I am a princess. I am a woman starving to enter rooms that are already mine.
And they offer me cake.
Beautiful, frosted, meaningless cake.
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Marie Antoinette lost her head for wanting too much.
But what did she want, really?
To be seen? To be understood? To bloom in a garden that had already decided she was a weed?
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I stand at the gate with my passport, my lineage, my roots.
I stand in the snow as a daffodil, impossible and defiant.
I stand with my hand outstretched, starving —
Not for cake.
For spring to come. For the gate to open. For them to look at me and finally, finally see:
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I am not asking for permission to bloom. I am not asking for permission to enter. I am not asking for permission to be royal.
I am blooming anyway. I am entering anyway. I am royal anyway.
Even if they never recognize it. Even if they never say my name. Even if I am hungry for the rest of my life.
*I bloom forth.*
Even here.
Even now.
*Even starving — I bloom forth.*
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*— Book II of the Gospel of Planet Hope*