Birth

Towered, towering high. You fall from the top of your tower, crashing down the earth, carried on soft melodies and low pockets of sympathetic air; the weight of a princess can never be that of a villain, the song of a priestess can never be that of a village witch. Your hair waves like a flag in the wind, screaming out surrender and asking, begging, pleading—let me fall. Because in death is your only freedom.

The price of royalty slits you straight across the throat and your blood falls like an offering to the earth. Tomorrow, they will find only your bones, none of your flesh, none of your spirit; that has already been taken, already been claimed.

In breaking the shackles, you floated high, higher. You sang the song of the priestess with the words of the village witch and embraced the villain.

You're not falling.

You're soaring.