I
sit on my high throne

according to your wish
preparing for The Trim

"Apple-cut"
you say and I

don't object
how
could I -- when your hard face

inspect me
in the mirror?

you
made me mute

and I behold you
and each strand

as they rain
and flood the floor

and I could never count
anymore

and I didn't count them
how could I --

when your feet
made their mark on the marble?

I'll allow you
that rare smile

but I'll count
your sins

I'll permit you
to perceive

the blood spilling
from my eyes

blood by the blade
which you neglected to sharpen

but I'll have your praise:
am I not beautiful

with my permanent scars?