Hearing you whisper your majesty,
my beautiful queen,
does not soothe me
it unravels me,
pulling a shiver from deep within.
I see my soul
mirrored in your selfless gaze,
boiling just beneath the surface,
a slow, exquisite undoing
on the verge of breaking.
You look at me as though
I were some ancient goddess,
holding the first sacred fruit
at the beginning of time.
And I
I should turn away,
resist the pull,
let you remain untouched
by whatever it is
I’m becoming.
But you are the mirror,
reflecting my buried truth
that does not lie or hesitate.
In your eyes, I see the fragility
the same deep abyss,
the same endless hunger,
that is so hard to resist.
We are descending
step by step
deeper and deeper,
down a spiral of stairs
firm hands and trembling touch.
A labyrinth of dangerous promises,
where time forgets itself
and we forget
who we once were.
You follow me
not out of obedience,
but in surrender so raw
it feels like worship
has taken form
and chosen you.
And I let you.
Because queens
are not meant to ache
but I do.
I ache in places
no light can reach,
no healing can undo.
And when it rises,
there you are, kneeling
not in weakness,
but in fierce, consuming devotion
that would set the world on fire
just to keep me whole.
You see it all
not just the throne,
but the ruin beneath it,
and the armor guarding it.
You worship like one
standing at the edge of a cliff,
knowing the fall is eternal,
and choosing it anyway.
So let us unmake each other
layer by layer,
truth by truth,
until no kingdom remains,
only the echo
of who we were
before we dared
to truly see one another.
And together,
we vanish into the dark
not taken,
not forced,
but willingly,
hand in hand.