A Letter To You

You are sophisticated. You live in malls, swimming in brands while somewhere, someone feels insulted for the lies you believe to be the truth. You, who speak of philosophy and quote the famous, discussing art on the bed of Adonis, taunt those who you deem as being 'imperfect'. They, as you say, are not beautiful like you want them to be. You have learnt to love donkeys and horses and cats and dogs. Yet you know no love. It is this that creeps into my skin- your joyous hypocrisies, a hollowness that stands out in stark contrast to the kindness you seem to offer.

Today I stand here to ask you if you are beautiful.

Today I stand here to ask you if you are perfect.

Fear not for I will not rate you, Your Highness.

I speak of high treason in the name of love.

But then again, it is not your fault. You are the future queen. Someday, you will have the world swooning over you, begging for your attention, and you will casually toss your hair with a flattered expression that will appear shocked at such transgressions that, 'that' lesser mortal touched your shoulder. I do not blame you. You are a princess after all. Who touches you but a handsome prince- the future king of an imaginary island inside your delirious mind. 

You two will 'hang out' in a 'cool' land where all are perfect. Along will come, little Alice- angry with her fists larger than the trees in your garden of time.

But, a queen does not hang out. A queen is prim and proper who speaks when asked to speak but makes wise decisions when the king is in distress for being stupid, and frankly, quite blind. Soon enough, a day will come when your king will fly away to some distant land, to some distant woman you will come to despise.

How dare the king leave the queen! you will say.

You will pace the rooms until the footsteps become a sigh, and then, a legend. Long after you will be gone, there will be ghostly tales of ghostly you- sad, lonely, seeking love and finding none. It is then that you will remember...

... You will remember me.

My loyalties remain where they should remain. I say this, not as one of your kind, but as the lesser mortal, you think I am. So, my queen, be gone, be gone from the dusty wooded path that leads you to my door. Curse me all you want. It will offer your parched skin, solace. But know that your kind words do not reach me anymore.

I want bread, not cakes.

Regards,

...