Queen of Crows

Dark ringed eyes, blood red lipstick; she walks her head held high.
Stiletto heals, black from head to foot, a statement to all.
The perfect picture of pure anarchy, and she smiles.
She walks with no care, a Queen of Crows.
People stare, not quite sure how to take this show of no care,
She’s cast aside, but who cares,
It’s what she wants, isn’t it?

She leaves the crowds, walks down an empty alley.
She pause to rest,
Her feet aching,
Her face caked with makeup,
Pulling off her heavy coat and uncomfortable shoes,
She runs home.

Alone in her bathroom she sits, scratching the mask off her face.
Her red eyes now visible, from the tears she wept
Rinsing her hair again, she watches the water turn black.
Black hair, black nails, black heart.

In her room, a dungeon of hate and horror,
She sits, the Queen of Crows,
Weeping.
Dew to harsh words and cruel actions.
A small angel long forgotten.
She sits alone,
Wanting to be wanted by the world.