Skin as white as a white tiger;
Mind as clear as lightness nothingness;
Lips mimicking gently placed rubies;
Hair flowing as a black horse’s mane;
Heart as rich as gold;
Her wealth richer than the jewels you dream about;
Body as long as the great mountain;
Personality no one can loathe;
Her smile brilliant-up showing the scholars of the world;
More loyal than the royal dog;
But these are just rumors started by excited gossipers.
I am the perfect princess. The one in the mind of every little girl in my kingdom, Pathlion. I sit pretty and straight during every minute. I wave the wave only a princess who has had years of practice can master. I have the beauty that make men want to court me. I am as rich as the heavens. I take full courses that only my family can afford. Once again, I am the ideal, perfect, controlled princess.
But just like the rumors, I am overly fake.
I am just what you picture me to be. I could be the evil, gorgeous queen you wish, or the wishful thinking of the little girl’s imagination. I could be the conniving liar waiting for my next victim. Or maybe I am the role model meant for you to beat. The perfect princess or the suspect of crimes.
But I am no one special. From my perspective, none of that matters. I don't want the fame or fortune. What I want is a sin. I know I shouldn't want it, and I don't. I crave it. I try desperately to get it every day, but I can never succeed.
I will do anything for this. I would be the happy housewife making dozens of children for my spouse or the killer of innocent people. I've even tried to take my own life hoping that I could grasp my wanting, my needing.
What could possibly cause me such deadly desire?
Think. Think hard.
Let us gather up the hints I have discarded so carelessly, failing to contain my secret.
I am the princess, the fairest of them all with white skin and black, thin hair, and with the beauty and brains.
I have the riches already and more fame than I need, but yet I want neither, nor my beauty.
The rumors are nothing to me, personal image being an optional fetish.
The needing I want is a sin, so it's obliviously obscure from the regular mind.
I would do anything just for a teensy-weeny taste.
Got it yet? No it's not human blood, but I will shed it if I was asked to in return for this. No, it's not that over fantasized prince charming on a white horse; I already have my retard in shining tin foil that came riding in on an ass. It's not even to be a normal person.
I have succumbed to the sin of envy—envy being jealousy of another. But I am not just envious of one person; I want to be them all. Small, fat, tall, anorexic, poor, rich, unhappy, happy—it doesn't matter, I am just jealous of them all.
Looks like the mirror made a mistake, I know. If I was the blasted mirror, then maybe I would have predicted the correct persona of a person. Wouldn't knowing the true side of a person by merely looking at them be, as if, orgasmic?
Oh, there I go again. Who would have thought the perfect princess, with seven little slaves and a handsome man, would become so seduced by the horrible idea? Not the mirror.
So as I sit here, in my window sill, staring out at my joyful kingdom—
I am just envious.