Le Comte Rouge

Cheers fill the air 

in attempt to praise thy honor.

Thou hast won falsely

with no sympathy.

I clench my fists.

Thou hath proclaimed 

wanting nothing gained

The thief in thy heart

tricked with such art.

I allow anger to flow free.

Bewitched by thee

the people care not for me.

Thorns weave for they are thine

as they take hungrily what was mine.

I bare my fangs.

All I see is red

if only you were dead.

Such horrid things ought not 

to occupy thought.

And yet, they do.

Rouge coats mine own cheeks

as many a tear leaks.

But should not tears be clear?

Potent crimson should not be so near

And yet, it is.

Thou basks in sludgy praise 

uncaring of the hurt upon my face.

From wounds it spills—

something only the darkness wills.

And yet, I cry.

Rouge blurs mine own sight

hiding me from the light.

These crimson tears 

reach no one’s ears.

I stay by my hidden pillar.

I lift a hand to my skin 

and the crimson is not thin.

It tauntingly coats my fingers

but none of the heat lingers.

I glide into shadow.

Crimson, rouge, crimson, rouge—

Purity cloaked by the thick liquid.

It runs and stains my flesh.

But it does not flow from my heart.

Where oh where could it come from?

I trail my single finger to the source

before running to the nearest glass.

Shattered just as I, it reflects

the true consequences of thy actions.

My icy eyes run tainted with sin.

Death. Pain. Terror.

I’ve nothing else left.

Too steeped in rouge,

I can only let myself suffocate.

Thou hast done this with thy own desires.

Rouge drowns who I once was

as the tears fall from impure eyes.

Thy choices hath led to mine own tragedy.

I was not always this way.

Twas thou who made me so.

I was left to the crimson tide

never to keep my head above the rushing waves.

Because of thy thievery I became this.

Thou may bear love’s title 

But twas I who truly became le comte rouge.

It is I who earned the title of Beautiful Monster!