You are the king and you are the queen. Everything we’ve ever wanted is embodied in you.
We all bow down and make way for the royal family. It’s you, and we worship the ground you walk upon. We kiss your feet and we serve you. The king smiles. The queen gives a curt nod. We beg you to help us.
The king carries on and so does the queen.
We reach out our arms, wanting nothing more than to touch your godlike clothes or skin—anything. You stomp on our hands.
Our king, our queen: this royalty runs through your blood. This majestic, higher inheritance is your right—your duty. Can a transfusion fix this? Can you be replaced?
The king falls and the queen dies. We carry on and find a new god to worship.
You are no longer the king and you are no longer the queen. You have failed your people; crushed our dreams and stepped on our arms.
You are not the king and you are not the queen, but you still carry on. You carry on, kissing the ground of our new god.