there are burnished corners where obsidian dreams bloom into the white marble that this noble used to built something like the chapel at Sistine.
whenever you spoke your words were like baroque paint and you spoke slowly as if recreating the ceiling of that chapel in Sistine. your skin was like ivory, a living bust of nobility that spoke roman words of glory and dripped spartan gold liquid from your mouth. you were not insipid when they called you improper names or said you were a mere lady.
they called you a child and when they went shooting you dabbed your mental wounds and gave yourself ointment in certain ways because you loved staring at the serene grass so green. the inclement clouds smiled upon you. the ice veined monsters who you had the audacity to call your friends hated your beauty because it was not obvious but hidden in your words and the slant of your graceful hip.
your crown of humility is inlaid with gems and value beyond reckoning. but you open your eyes and sniff the pine needles and lick the snow. the forest is silent. your coronation is perfect. you are unique. these words do not hurt you.
see, you are solitary. you are sovereign of your own soul.
