She was regal.
But she was not beautiful.
She sat atop her throne of punishment for all of her mistakes..
A throne built on lies, mortared from shards of broken dreams.
She sat there, in her stretched and heavy body and looked down at her people.
Every face was another version of her.
Faces unrecognizable - faces painfully familiar.
The face of a thinner, happier woman— a body slim, curved, acceptable.
A face scarred by age and choice..
A face bruised and tear-stained by lovers' anger..
A face full of hope and dreams, untouched by the knowledge that life would one day crush them.
So many faces.
If only she could have warned them.
If only she could have told them
that they too would one day sit upon this throne.
If only she could have told the future.
When had she become this?
When had she become the woman who gave endless chances,
though each one cost another piece of her soul?
As she studied the crowd,
another face appeared.
A face of pure joy.
A face she did not understand.
It wore traces of her features,
yet she knew it belonged to another.
A woman who received what regal women should receive.
A woman cherished.
A woman chosen.
A woman certain of her worth.
But it was not her.
It was a metamorphosis—
part herself,
part the woman who helped build the throne.
The woman who laid its false foundation,
then hid sharp pins within the seat,
where only the seated would feel them.
She planted them with the king’s blessing.
Each time the king confessed love to her,
he pressed another pin into her palm.
A secret exchange.
A knowing glance.
Neither cared for the pain it would cause the queen.
The queen was regal,
but never truly desired.
She became queen through lies—
lies of her womb,
lies that promised no princes,
no princesses.
And when those lies were revealed,
the king called it a trap.
Before she was queen,
she too had been a mistress.
A mistress dressed in black.
A mistress with features much like the woman below.
When the lie of her womb was believed,
the king draped her in ruby velvet,
fur trim,
jewels bright as fire.
The mistress became queen.
But once the truth emerged,
the gown began to fade.
The jewels were plucked from her breast.
The fur tangled and matted.
And now, in the crowd,
the pin-planter wore her gown.
A chill overtook the queen.
She looked down and saw herself exposed.
Her imperfect body on display.
Her shame on display.
Her fear on display.
She tried to cover herself,
to lift her chin,
to remain regal—
but the weight of the crown forced her lower.
And when she could bear it no longer,
the crown fell with a deafening ring.
It rolled.
Straight toward her.
Straight toward the pin-planter.
The woman bent with effortless grace,
unburdened by weight,
unhindered by shame.
Her long fingers closed around the crown.
She rose slowly,
eyes fixed on the queen.
With the posture of a woman long told she was worthy,
she placed it upon her dark hair.
She smiled.
In that moment,
the former queen understood:
she would still be used,
but she would no longer rule.
Then the faces of her past descended.
Hungry.
They swarmed what little life remained within her.
They fed upon the final glow she possessed.
And when they were done,
she was no queen at all—
only a mistress once more,
second to the new queen.
