Not Worthy Of A Crown

I’m not worthy of a crown, not with my tongue wrapped in curses, or my hands stained with gin, toasting to life with a glass that’s seen more dirt than decanter. Champagne flutes? I’ll take a tumbler, thanks. I don’t wear dresses that swish and sigh, no silk surrendering to the wind - I wear leather that’s seen more miles, denim that hugs without apology. Pink makes me itch like a lie, a colour that never sat right on my skin. My cutlery’s a rebellion, knife in the wrong hand, fork like a rogue, like I’m eating with a side-eye to the rules. I’ve got tattoos of skulls and beetles, etched into skin like secrets, wings that flap loud enough to make silence tremble. I laugh like thunder tearing through a quiet sky, slam tequila like I’m daring the world to catch up - but that’s the price of freedom, a throat raw with defiance. I have opinions that crack like glass, things society isn’t ready to hear, not ready to swallow. But crowns? Just circles of hollow gold, polished and perfect, made for heads too soft to handle the weight of their own shadows. I am no queen, but I do know how to wear a crown of smoke, and that’s far more interesting.