I sit on a throne of
broken organs and pomegranate juice,
black blood lining freshly sunken eyes,
poison colouring split lips
framing a row of chipped pearls
with a dagger for a tongue.
I sit on a throne
made by the masquerade
I sung to life
to keep me company
in a world turned to rot
under discarded seeds
refusing to bloom.
I sit on a throne
with my chin raised high
above the flames licking my ribs,
blistering my skin, for I
do not give a damn
for the nobility’s survival.
I sit on my throne
even when peasants believe me
to be broken – but darling
the only fragile things about me
are my words and the way they decree
a line drawn between
good and bad intentions.