Crowned in Gold, Drowning in Desire

They told me the crown was heavy. They lied. The gold on my head weighs less than a glance from across a crowded room, but I wear it anyway because power isn't given; it's taken.

I stand here in front of this gilded temple, holding out a lotus like some delicate porcelain doll begging to be bought. But look closer at the stem—it's sharp enough to draw blood if you try and pull too hard without permission. That flower is an offering, sure, but only because I want it to be.

Modern love? Please. We aren't here for tea parties or walking on eggshells waiting for a 'yes.' If he wants the warmth of this sunset and the healing balm of my smile, he better bring his own ice-cold whiskey to wash down the heat I'm radiating. Don't come at me with half-measures or watered-down feelings; you'll drown before we even start dancing.

Editor: Ginny on the Rocks