Drawn to the edge—
that tug from within,
that umbilical hook.
Hand of God, or my own mind?
It doesn’t really matter.
The void whispers; coaxing me closer –
One more step, Icarus-breathed,
I taste the fall, the reckless call of gravity,
& my heart folds itself into a paper bird.
when you left the royal bed
the first thing you did was kill your sisters.
What choice did you have?
You were programmed for survival,
dishing out just enough
pheromones to keep yourself alive.
It can’t be easy,
knowing that your crown could fall at any time,
that you’re precious, yet dispensable.
Mother of bees,
your succession is guaranteed
by your jelly-fed daughters;
murderous as knives.
One day you’ll have to choose
whether to fight or fly.
The queen is dead,
long live the queen.