Fool Queen

I am expected to fail. Encouraged to. Been threatened with it.

Been threatened by the unlikely cause of me succeeding.

I have feared for my life until my skin has sagged from the burden.

I have covered my scars with ink,

devastation raining until the blood ran black into puddles by my skeletal feet.

Starved until I was little more than a drop of myself.

Something tells me to fight, a voice in my head quiet as the still crowd to the seat of a beheading, so I retreat into my very own powerless mind. It is lit only by fury, only by wisps of horrid remnants I pour over until I am half dead and scarred.

Absolute and desolate in my retirement, for a year. Twelve months of only my own torrent of thoughts, an audience to a maelstrom of faces I beg to forget.

I purged my soul onto page upon page, until words blur into veins.

Until veins burst to stems.

Until flowers are solidified into floral carnage.

Until I am no longer weak.

Until the little girl, hated, is dead and no one will ever know me close enough to hold and ressurect. To know and wish you hadn't.

Like my ascendants, I rose from the dying farmland, stood from impoverished seats to survive off hardwork and smarts.

No one knows what I overcame. No one knows my name.

I will sooner exile myself to exaltation of my enemies before anyone will ever know a fool queen.