One more day, one more time – your words fly like fiery sparks of fire and pierce me like the sharpest icicles. Oh, why wouldn’t you understand? Why do you hurt me, to love me again? Why do you love me, to hurt me again? Glassy spangles down your cheek – what are they? Tears of repentance? Whatever for?
You wrap me up in this conundrum called your love, cloaked in burning jealousy and possessiveness, and as I choke, you say I am a princess, your princess.
Yes. Yes, I am. I am your princess, the princess with a crown, the crown of thorns, the thorns of irony, for I am after all a ruffled feather, against a backdrop of deceiving joy.