Please Don't Fight These Hands That Are Holding You

She sits at the throne, in the highest of chairs, and awaits for something different to strike the summer air.
Her hair is a mess, going unbrushed for days, and her palms are wiped red with blisters from the way her fingers have laid.
She is the tortured and the torturess, as well as the lion that runs from the huntress.
She is poison and black smoke,  mixed with a cruel laugh that binds you and chokes you.
She is the manacles hooked around your wrists, the marks woven in your skin.
No matter what, she is the trembling breath that strikes you at your most vulnerable.
She’s the ecstasy that blinds you.
The demon that turns you  masochistic.
She is the highest in royal definition, and you are her animal. You do as she says.
You give what she wants.
You make sure to please her in whatever she commands.
She is the enchantment that buried itself so deep between your bones, attaching to your heart and mind, that you will never let her go.
She is the prison guard and you are her prisoner.
Many chase after her, but you run the fastest.
You climb the hardest, fight the dirtiest, and leave the roughest marks.
You are what she has molded you to be.
You are defeated, but you are also the champion.
You beg and plead, fight a little more, and you give everything you have until your dying breath.
Your only wish is for her not to fight the hands that have held her for so long, and she turns to walk away because she is not under your command.
She was always the one in control, and your desires mean nothing to a girl that sits on her throne waiting for her next toy.