The Lizard Queen is a punching bag,
A doormat,
A sadsack,
A figurehead.
What even is a Queen of Lizards
Anyway?
No Queen who ever commanded respect,
Nor learned any grace,
Wrecked limbs grasping in the air for
Balance she will never know.
Wrecked feet flailing out from under her,
Akimbo, unnatural, untrained.
When they jeer at her,
She lets them.
And she calls herself Queen.
When they demean her,
She is a thousand times patient.
And she calls herself Queen.
To be Queen, unrecognized,
Is to dole out watered-down chicken soup
To one's own stupid soul,
That thirsts for solace.
In the end, they will push her further,
As far as she can go,
Bending her back to the limit like
A blade of yellow grass.
And when they've forced her to the edge of pain,
They will be incredulous and tilt their heads,
And as always they will ask,
"Doesn't that hurt?"
And she, meaning to say,
"Not yet,"
Will instead say,
"No."
And smile.
And call herself Queen.