Once, I might’ve burnt down my own throne,
disgusted by the weeds that climbed around it;
I might’ve kissed my crown lovingly,
might’ve painted it with blood
before burying it with the rest of my thorns.

A kingdom needs its queen.
This queen needs herself back.

I dust off my cloak.
Where do souls go to rest?
Where do you return the body you borrowed?

The doors slide open-
away I go.