A thirst for iron moulded into a crown,
with jewels as red as my lips
and blacker than the sky.
A dress darker than midnight,
and brighter than the stars.
Those glass slippers,
with the heel sharp enough to kill a man.
Poison in my glare and arson in my touch.
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
Radiant as sin,
but wickeder than revenge itself.
I'm fuelled by pain and chaos,
so perfectly broken and bruised
by the patriarchy.
It makes becoming the antagonist sweeter than sugar,
and easier than breathing.
Tell me I'm the villain
when I speak my truths
or believe the victim.
Blame me for self-destruction
and your career falling into ruination.
I'll be the dark mark on your reputation,
while still wearing that heavy crown
and my heels piercing the monster within.
So make me your villain.
Tell me I'm wrong.
Lie with ignorant boldness.
But remember to look over your shoulder
when you're walking down the street,
without those keys between your fingers.
It's the epoch of inevitable power and wicked beauty.
And villains love revenge.
