Prom Queen

She strides across the tarmac;
A crown of golden silk and hairspray on her head,
Over to her wooden bench throne.
It's your fault you sat there.
Stand. It's your ground.
You might as well kiss it
Your face is so close.
You lift up your head
To recognise the blood on her rings
Of teeth.

She cares not for you
In your servants' rags.
She swings the metal pole above her head
Like a royal sceptre
And laughs.

Some days
Her blouse is so encrusted with
Hate she can barely move.
Some days
The wasp of her waist is so tight she can barely
Breathe.
But she pulls the laces harder still; every day.
Her diamonds turn to rubies.

All eyes and lashes
She marks your face.
She turns your sapphire eyes
To purple
With a flash of her heel.
You run away to a safe country,
But know no escape.
You stand in the light of the door way
And the shadow of a fist glistens on the wall.

Ten years later.
Her majesty sends the princess to school
And wonders why her dress comes back red.