When I am queen

When I am queen
I will insist with perfect scars upon my wrist
That everything you once held dear is taken away from you

In her perfect world, raven hair whips around her face and arms, blown by tempestuous winds. In her mind, she is sitting on her throne. Her perfect world has become truer than reality, and she sits in her room oblivious to her surroundings. The populace of her perfect world revers the blood that pours from her wrists. The red rivulets are her status; they are her power; her release. To her subjects, she is beautiful. She is perfect. As the blood stains her bed sheets, she sinks deeper into her fictional reality.

Her mind has chiseled every detail of the world that she reigns over. The skies are charred and glow with lightening permanently brewing, waiting patiently for her blessing before scorching the earths and the posessionless inhabitants who covet her so. Delicate roses, black and withering, bloom on blackened stone walls and the roofs of collapsed houses. Her world is one of suffering, and she reigns supreme as the hope for the future in the eyes of her subjects. All the while, she is the one who causes them suffering. She is the one who wants them scorched and crying.

She deserves to be the queen.

When I am queen
On royal throne made out of parts of broken bones
Of all the devils I have known that suck the angels dry

She orders the piteous souls to execution regularly, in a less comical way than the Queen of Hearts, who is perhaps, a sated version of her dream-self. She takes a perverse pleasure in watching blood flow over open wounds, all the while one hand pressed on her own wounds, the ones which keep her in control of her dream world, of herself. She watches skin be stripped to the bone, muscles rippling until viciously torn away from body. She watches the life leave the eyes of her victim. She takes a special pleasure in watching bright eyes cloud over.

It is victory.

When I am queen I'll have my way
I'll make it drowning dolly day
And all the tears that we have cried will suck back in our eyes

Immersed in her perfect world, blood pooling around her in the real world, she imagines extracting the tears from the eyes of everyone who has ever hurt her. They look up to her now, they grovel at her feet, but she spares them no mercy. She knows their weaknesses, and exploits them until the tears come. Her ears feast on piteous sobs and moans. Each of her subjects must cry until they pay her back for her own tears.

The crystalline way they fall to the ground is hypnotic; the sparkle of the eyes and the trembling of the lip is beautiful. The parched earth swallows every tear and becomes darker where they fall. With every tear that falls to the ground, her world becomes darker, the way she wishes the real world were.

When I am queen they all will see
The patron saint of self-injury
The glitter sores will heal themselves
I'll play the part of someone else

The world's darkness is torched by black magic. The blood welling from intricate cuts and old scars on pale arms turns the world into what she desires. It renders the populace submissive, it renders her in control. It makes her what she wishes she could be.

But slowly, as she feels weaker, she hurtles into reality. Her mind no longer has the strength to keep her in her perfect world.

Bleakly, she looks around at the room which is her reality. Bare walls, drab bedclothes, impersonal. She has known for some time that this cannot be her real world; the world she imagines in her mind is reality, because it is so much more tangible than this place. Looking weakly at the pools of red, she smiles. Not much time left...soon she will be where she belongs...where she has always belonged...

How long has she been dying?

DROWN DROWN DROWN MYSELF
DROWN DROWN DROWN MYSELF
DROWN DROWN DROWN MYSELF
DROWN....

Not much time left...