a crawling creature who was not made to rule
scurrying little vermin who was never made at all
a plague may grow in the mouths of beasts
and a curse may precipitate from pointed fingers
but this pining thing, only ever thought, craves power
to create when she has never known creation
or to destroy when she loathes the nature of destruction
wielding all the self-repulsion embedded in her bones
this pretty girl, that horrid presence, bathes in razor wire
begs to play the killer but can only ever smile
sobs herself to sleep and empties her organs onto the floor
but awakens in the trepidatious winter light
as hesitant as she is to rise and meet the occasion
of her looming expectation and dutiful abdication
like forbidden lovers both pander to the ideals of a religion
that worship her eternal undoing, forever collapsing
at the feet of some blank-faced hero
for whom she will die but never give up her throne
breathing or not makes no difference to this defiance
that miserable king, petulant and scornful
cruel but not careless and in denial against reality
for she knows nothing of the real world, of the kingdom she desires
only that distant song which slips beneath her door
and knocks against the frosty window panes to tease
a future she could never hold, only suffocate
for her hands are not hers as she gave those away
with her tongue and her feet to the whims of desire
and so became the spirit of every unfulfilled wish
prayed or screamed or wept into existence
for she will never have the will to exist herself
