A queen rides high.

Woman reigns on her throne. She decides your fate with the third knuckle of her right index finger. You kneel before her as she uncrosses her thighs to stand. Delilah, with your head in her lap and armour in a heap by her bed, stroking your face into goosebumps with quiet whispers. Never have you moved so quick as when you fell at the feet of sweet Guinevere, asking you to lay down your sword and lie down with her. Atop the gallows, your lips bleed from the nip of Anne Boleyn's front teeth, her eloquently ribboned neck upon the guillotine. And on an oak desk sprawled across with battle tactics and maps Elizabeth holds you to her to breathe in your new favorite color in her hair. It is bred into the women. Woman wears the evening star on a dainty chain between her breasts, and tells the moon when she has had her fill, that he may go.