I am tired of being brave, tired
of facing the world with a brave face,
tired of sitting on the throne, carved
from stone, on the small balcony
overlooking the formal garden,
where everyone laughs and talks
as they stroll on gravel pathways.
Today, by my order, the throne
has been turned and now faces
the double doors that lead inside.
The blood on the throne is mine.
My mother harangues me for being
a coward, but I turn away.