You wanted the spotlight — the warm white light — promoting your bronzed cheekbones,
and ooh, those berrylicious lips.
You wanted fame — to feel, beneath your high heels, layers of swooning fans.
Fans whom you’d listen to without emotion, as they cried and screamed:
“We love you, Princess!”
Having arrived here with a history of elementary friendship,
I knew my role was to be too dark to suit but the afterglow of your spotlight;
I knew well, to fade faster than a setting sun, in your dominion,
reminding onlookers only of how exceedingly lovely your essence.
Together we laughed at the ugly boys who adored you;
knowing those were the only partners I could choose from,
buried so deeply in the shadows of your bootylicious behind.
From the recesses, I accepted my particular role,
tumbling through the tunnels of time,
mirroring one nearest the Divine,
till an interloper blurted out the notion,
that I deserved to be treated like a Queen,
not her handmaiden.
Me a Queen, and you a Princess?
Never had such a fantasy penetrated my thick skin;
Never could it even roll off it, like half-round droplets of sin.
Could we really be equally lovely?
I hadn’t the heart to dream, in the depths where theory fell away from reality;
But he moved like a mirror, reflecting my every virtue,
tempting some infant version of a lady to evolve into full feminine.
Why didn’t you like the vision of confidence emitted then,
the lovely woman unfolding?
Would you have preferred I stayed your eunuch?
The Milkyminx 
Leave a comment