the hymn of a minimalist sycophant.

All rise for the 

queen of detachment. 

She doesn't give a shit

about you. 

And your reign will end.

And she will not balk or resign from her attempts 

at a coup that fucks you. 

This angry, bitter, and heartless march

towards a throne that 

doesn't exist. 

She will be livid 

about nothing

and about 

everything. 

A crown woven from paradox

and dissociation 

honed at 

age six.