Beneath the Crown

The crown got too heavy,
and no one ever explained what it meant in the first place.

Was it supposed to make me taller?
Or blind others, catching light just right, convincing them I was something worth looking at?

I don’t want it.
Not the gold, not the stones, not the shine.

I want less.

The crown is too heavy.
It hurts.
It reminds me how unstable the ground beneath me is every time it shifts, every time it slides down the sides of my face.

What does it mean to you?
Are you supposed to look at me and feel something?

Because to me, it’s weight.
A hollow circle carrying more than it was ever meant to hold.

A reminder that something always exists above me.
Something beautiful.
Something close enough to see, but never to have.

I don’t get to hold it.
Or define it.
Or even benefit from it.

And I’m fine with that.

I mean, it’s a crown, right?
It’s supposed to make me feel something.

Princess shit.

If only it came with the rest of it,
the magic, the prince, the castle,
the peace.

Peace.
That’s all I actually want.

It feels simple.
Almost attainable.
Always just out of reach.

I see it in other people, so I know it exists.
I don’t need a mirror for that.

The crown, though,
I only know it’s there because of the weight.

Maybe it tells people I matter.
That I’m special.
Worth something.

I don’t think I want that.
Do you?
I want to be quiet.
Unnoticed.
I don’t want to matter to anyone.

It’s exhausting to matter.
There’s upkeep. Maintenance.
You have to stay in their minds, their hearts.
You need reminders. Consistency. Proof.

Belief.

Blind belief.

The kind that ignores your own experiences just to keep something alive.

I’ve tried that with people.
Blind faith.

It’s never worked for me.

So why would this be any different?

I find a blade.

I sharpen it.

I start to cut. I need it to fall and slide down nothing.

My hair… I slice it off with reckless abandon and no mirror.
Mirrors are for princesses.

Seriously,
If no one can tell me what this crown means,
and I can’t either,
then why the hell am I carrying it?

Faith?
No.

I’ve never been good at believing in things without reason.

So I cut.

Shears this time, cleaner, faster.

The crown won’t fall on its own.
It has to be removed.

And it’s too heavy to lift, because it’s not just sitting there,
it’s anchored.

It was given to me once.
A long time ago.

After a battle I fought for years.
One that left me empty.
Invisible.
Worthless.

The crown was a reward.
Proof that something underneath me had earned it.

But that meaning shifted.
I want less now.
Much less.

I want an eraser.
To feel the friction, the undoing.
Furiously hitting it back and forth, feeling the heat of the anger… the sadness and regret.
The heat of the friction… so satisfying

But somewhere along the way, the world decided we don’t get erasers anymore.
Only pens.

Permanent things.

So I cut.
Without pause.

I take as much of myself with it as I need to,
just to get this fucking thing off.

Strands fall.
Tendrils slide down my body to the floor.
I don’t look.
I’m not ready to see how much of myself I had to remove
just to prove I don’t belong under something I never understood.

Maybe you do.

And I hope you do.

I hope you get a crown for every day of the week.
Jewels layered across your skin, reminding you that you shine.

I finally look down.

Piles.
Dark brown.
Auburn catching the light.

Too much.
Gone.
Blanket on the tile.

I feel it shift.
The crown…Sliding.
I tilt my head back just enough
to let it fall.

It hits the ground like a coin,
sharp, echoing,
vibrating until it settles into silence.

Relief?
No.
Not relief.
Vindicated.

Not because I have answers,
but because something in me knows
it doesn’t belong there anymore.

I don’t want to stand out or tall.
I don’t want to carry beauty like it’s a responsibility.

I want…
I want to be
A blur in a crowd.
An afterthought.

I choose to leave it there.
To be found as the start of someone else’s story.

Resting on
strands, memories, pieces of myself.

They say hair holds memories.
Hair, Crown, Memories beneath my feet…

I don’t know if I feel lighter yet.
But I do know this,

I don’t need something above me
to remind me to hold my head up.

Sometimes I want it down.
I want the freedom
to not be strong.
seen.
To not be anything at all.

And maybe that’s it

…the quiet aftermath
ridding myself of what was never mine to carry.

silent tears of knowing that finally
there is
nothing left to hold onto…

not even myself