The Kissing Maiden by Terveen Gill

Her lips were envied by the mighty and the weak.

They were also adored and worshipped. Haunting ballads described them as magical, professing their power as life-giving and lethal.

She wasn’t born from nobility, rather handpicked from hostility. An orphan with no past or future, a gift to the ones who possessed her.

A throne was carved from ivory and she was placed upon it. She sat with her head high, her golden crown gleaming like a halo.

From far she shone like a queen, but her eyes wept a bitter reality.

She was named the Kissing Maiden, her lowly born status stripped from her, new chains of repression wrapped around her.

Her face was painted white, hiding the darkness of her skin, but her pitch-black soul could never be lightened. Little was given to her, too much was asked of her.

And she gazed upon humanity with disinterest, her own life buried beneath undue obligation.

Men, women, children were brought before her, and her red lips parted, each kiss declaring the living from the dying.

Her lips tasted each breath, lingering in its flavor, before distinguishing the sinners from the innocent.

In silence, the blessed bowed and returned, while the dead lay wasted and crumpled.

From dawn to dusk, the Kissing Maiden performed her duty with poise, stealing mere seconds to dab her bleeding lips with milk and honey.

One colorless morning, an infant was brought before her. It was the king’s newborn son. The maiden hesitated but did not show it.

Her lips felt softness and inhaled pureness. But it was time to end what they had started.

Wails resounded in the air. The kiss of death had taken the king’s only heir.

She was branded a witch and drowned in black waters. Her lips were finally free.