Make Me A King

We are four drinks in when I pretend to trip,
falling into your lap as I ask you,
with the sweetest sliver of curiousity that you ever did see,
if you’d like to be my mad King of Scotland.

You slur, affirmatively,
mumbling,
your memory hazy and your vision vivid,
hands doing their best against the attacking alcohol,
lost on their way up my skirt,
stuck, slowly stroking my thighs as you lose yourself in the eyes of a liar.

I told you once that I was a scammer,
but you go deaf when I undress,
soft kisses on my lips as you caress my body,
like it is the finest silk,
your greatest treasure,
and in those moments, I could say anything,
but I whispered the truth,
watching you whirl out of control,
with no concept of what was to come.

If I stare at your brown eyes long enough,
it is enough to convince me that my reluctance is a madness.
My hands are humbled as you hold them,
praying with me for some kind of passion,
besides the performative to be forthcoming,
but you know me.
You,
six foot two with dark eyes and fancy suits,
you know me,
you pray for me,
you howl your hopes as I get you drunk and dive into your fantasy,
but darling, you know me.

You could be my mad King,
but I could never truly be your treasure.
My hands are baked in blood, and the scent of tempting maids that come calling,
sneaking in through the window while you sleep off a hangover.
You could be my plaything,
my marvellous, mad King,
but I am hanged by the strings that I swing you around by.

“Make me a King”,
you mumble to the manic pixie dream Queen that lives in your lap,
and so, I snap my fingers,
sending you to the delusional candy land you desire so much.