I hide in myself incomplete,

a shell of who I thought i would be.

The way I dress, the way I must act, the way I must seem,

It's not me.

Everyday I swim in a sea of lies that were forged to me

against my will.

My burden was decided when my personality was.

The queen's orders be absolute and who is this lowly courier to object?

She expects me to be this and so i am.

I'm a prisoner in my own house a place I sought for solitude,

only to be turned away and scorned.

The only people who know what I am, who I am,

 are the people beyond the four walls I dwell within.

Out in the open is where i frolic without facade,

Deep in my homestead is where I must shun myself into becoming the doll.

She is not an evil queen though, no lying languid in rivers of blood flowing forth from those less enjoyed.

She is kind and caring, but intolerant, like a warm sun, once crossed, will burn.

Though the queen remains unaware of the versatility of her daughter's tastes,

perhaps it best to lie in wait.

This child that loves all, not discriminating on color or type, 

be ridiculed if caught with a child of likeness birth roles,

why is her love not right?

"Because the lord hath said..."?

Why does he hate this love?

If her dressings be not like a lady, but dark and masculine, 

let her be thrown to the lowest of respects.

Might she be inclined to kill herself, it would be a disgrace.

Only mud on her mother's face.

Grow strong child and do not fret, one day you can shine.

Your inherited dullness may drive you mad, but the reward of having your own personality and tastes validated and not judged awaits.

Wait and Bleed under your mask, soon you may remove it.

Hold on for a bit longer, just for me.