text: I have built a throne of shame, the foundation started in my childhood. A strong foundation at that. Many have tried to break the foundation, but it doesn’t show a single scratch. I sit on it the throne, and wear a thorny crown of self disgust and hatred. It hurts me, but I won’t let anyone else wear my crown. It’s my responsibility, my legacy. It was passed to me by my father. Its all I have of him. The thorns adorned to the crown dig into my temples. Blood drains from my head as I wear the thorny crown, covering my eyes in red. Its all I see anymore. Red is anger, it is hate, it is doubt. The blood is my own life force draining away from me to betray me by clouding my eyes from the reality that I can’t seem to view on a daily basis. It covers my eyes and enters my mouth leaving me unable to speak. I can’t ask for help because my own blood prevents me. My own blood covers my vocal chords. When I try to speak, it is garbled nonsense. I speak, but no one can make it out. No one can see that I am in danger by my own blood. My life force drains from me freely from the holes the thorns dig into. On the outside, the blood moves down my face, dripping onto my body. Eventually my shoulders are covered. The blood has been spreading for years. The viscosity of the blood is so thick, I am no longer able to move. The weight of the blood on my shoulders causes my slouch in my throne. Sitting there, blood draining to my chest and belly. My belly once full and gleeful is now becoming flat. Blood drains from my body, once full of life, swollen with pride, now withering and wrinkled like a raisin. At one point of time, I would have been happy to be that thin. Now, I just see it as sorrow. Once I enjoyed eating, but now iron is all I taste. Now it is without joy. My belly flattens as the joy leaves my life. My legs, once quick and light have become heavy with disgust. I drag red iron anvils with an unsteady gait, eventually too tired to move. Each step heavier than the last. My legs are so heavy now, that I am stuck in this throne. Stuck with this crown of regret and shame. I ask for help. Nothing comes out. I reach for help, my arms are too heavy to lift. I look for help, but all I see is red. I try to run, but I can’t move my legs. I am stuck here now. By the end, my body is without blood. Drained. I’m covered with the very thing that used to keep me alive. The very thing that killed me. Trapped on my throne, wearing my crown with pride, I die. Alone, Misunderstood, Rigid and Red.