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.

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.

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

Permanent things.

So I cut.
Reckless.
Without pause.

I take as much of myself with it as I need to,
just to get this 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.
Too much of me gone.
But I chose it.

And then,
I feel it shift.
The crown…Sliding.

I tilt my head 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.

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

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

I just want to be me.

A blur in a crowd.
An afterthought.

Main character energy was never mine.
I’m fine being a guest appearance.

I leave it there.

Resting on the pile of what I cut away,
strands, memories, pieces of myself.

They say hair holds memory.
I don’t know if I feel lighter yet.
I’ll keep you posted.

But I do know this,

Whatever that crown meant once,
it doesn’t anymore.
It became weight.
Pain.
A reminder of things that never sat right in me.

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

Sometimes I want it down.
Sometimes I want the freedom
to not be strong.

To not be seen.
To not be anything at all.

So I leave it.

On the ground.

Maybe someone else will find it,
pick it up,
wear it differently,
give it a meaning that actually fits.

I hope they do.

Because here’s the truth,

The crown was heavy,
but it was never the heaviest thing.

The real weight
was always
what was underneath it.