i.

"The road to hell is paved in good intentions," they say.

"I've never had a good intention once in my life," you respond.

ii.

You marry a kind man. You are both young, and desperate for power. There is a way in, a way to the throne that takes a little ruthlessness to reach. You take your husband, and turn his sweetness sick and sour.

iii.

A woman like yourself could never reach where you want to go. You fumble behind your cage, anger and hatred bleeding out of the edges of the cage of expectations. You do not have the porcelain skin and gold spun hair to bind you to beauty, so you work with what you have instead. You highlight your dark skin with pastel pinks, tuck your black hair into itself, and hide your throat behind a high collar.

iv.

You grudge the world, many times over, for forcing you to choose. You had to chose between who you were (a girl, a woman, she, her), and what you wanted (a throne, power, to never bend your knees and bow ever again). You chose between your heritage (an eastern beauty, wild, exotic and how you hated that word), and the bleached mask (pure, noble, and virginal). You have sacrificed, chosen, and cut yourself apart, time after time.

It is now someone else's turn.

v.

You never loved your husband. He was your means to an end, but more importantly, he stood for everything you hated. Blond and white and male and rich, and you had never wanted so badly for all of those things. You wished you could have smiled when you were thought male, wished it had been easier than what you chose. But instead, you married a kind man, born into royalty. You married a kind man, but not a good one.

vi.

You are a butcher's daughter, daughter of an untouchable. You have worked, scrubbed and lived in blood and filth for as long as you can remember. Your husband has not, and again, you rethink your choice of puppets. Sure enough, however, your strings tighten again and you have him again at your beck and call. Killing a king is much dirtier work than you ever imagined, but you have always done what was necessary. Someday, that bloodstained crown would be yours. For now, you would make do with the queen's.

vii.

Your game has been discovered. Macbeth is to lose. You are not sure which part of you had ever trusted the fortune of a witch, but it was the same part that lost to a man.

You slit your own throat. It is hot, sticky, bloody, but it is the same as long as you can remember. You have always done the dirty work, always ended up with your hands stained red. You can never escape your untouchable past, even as a queen.

viii.

"The road to hell is paved in good intentions," they say.

"I've never had a good intention once in my life," you respond.