i am not the story

you have been told.

i am not pure

nor powerless

i am not your fantasy 

of an innocent you can corrupt.

you think he took me?

you think i knew not what i did

when i laughed and placed those crimson seeds 

upon my tongue?

do not mistake my kindness

for naievete.

i am forest fires and flower buds

i am poisonous thorns and newborn foals

i am death and rebirth—

cross me at your peril.

(you shall find that pretty rose vines

are just as lovely when they wrap tight over your limbs

and shatter your bones.)

my lord, he brings me wreaths of bloodstained flowers, 

and i grant him kisses laced with venom

he gifts me graveyards to plant my orchids

and i send him the torn heads of men 

who wrong my maidens. 

(i teach them combat alongside botany. both are arts.)

he rules with iron fist and i 

with gentle touch.

we live and love in a curious harmony 

of sweet birdsong

and the tortured screams of sinners.

come springtide i am bound to earth

to my mother’s sunfilled meadows,

her unequivocal, enduring love.

and by the fading light of summer

i return to my lover’s onyx walls 

and cimmerian heart.

i cherish both but they know

they would have no claim on me if i did not desire it

for i belong to myself,

i am only my own—

half blooming creation,

half blazing hellfire.

he calls me his lady

but he knows

i am a queen.