d.kolosova_art
Her hands did not fold in prayer by choice — the arrow holds them in place, freezing a gesture that was never meant to be holy.
The arrows in her cheeks are the ones she once released herself, returning to her with sharp honesty and leaving the crimson glow on her skin.
Her black lacquered gloves shine like living resin, a reminder of the power she can wield but chooses not to touch directly.
And above her, the crown hangs in the air — a symbol of authority that belongs to no one unless she decides to claim it.
No one can crown her; only she can place that crown upon herself.
