Call me the king.
The king of thorns.
My crown of jagged vines clings to my head.
The human in me slowly departs,
Leaving a broken, deadly, beast.
I'm almost gone,
But yet I stay here, my own thorns poison.
The sharp edges rip and tear,
Through clothing and emotion alike.
Because one raised under violence retains it.
Violence is my only other defense that isn't words.
My harsh edges dig into me, their supposed king.
I guess at some point I forgot who I was.
I'm not a king,
Nor a savior,
Nor a hero.
I'm a figure,
Silhouetted against the sunset.
The king of thorns is a puppet.
Bound by strings of his pain.
The thorns pierce deep inside me,
I'm just barely holding on.
Darling please come save me.
Before I'm lost and gone.