The table is round and the chair is square, as the two of them fold together, fold together, mingle slowly and form the base essence of your throne. For you are the kind, with your mad eyes, your soft smile that's often pressed to mine with a feeling I'd like to place as possessive desperation.
But I'm often wrong, though. I'm often wrong.
You smile like a madman and kiss me like a false fool, trapped in charred love. Because something's wrong. Something's wrong.
Your shirt is green, forest green, a poison that makes me want to scrape it off my tongue and bury it. I need to bury it down within the confines of the fields.
And I know the words before you've said them, because your body has done all the talking for you. Even though you don't know it.
You sit bored, slumped, chewing your words like an animal as you prepare to spit, hold it back and chew again while trying to phrase it all in a semi-polite manner. But you are the king, even if you don't realize it. Even if you don't care about your own immortality and the power you carry over me.
You are the king and you are bored, finished, tired of pretending you are an actor to match my pace as I stumble, trip and find myself sprawled out beneath your feet, ready to lick your boots, kiss your lips, and scrub myself raw in an attempt to clean my skin to your pleasing. I am always ready, I am always ready, I am, I am.
But you don't need a fool, a jester, a submissive of a lover crawling at your feet. You are the kind, and the king needs a queen in a faerie-tale book of sexist romance. Romance of first love, special love, love you've never held for me.
So I leave, I leave before you can tell me what I think you're about to say. I leave before you can tell me the truth.
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