The Other Crown is a collection of poems that asks the question: how much power do women have to give up in order to fall in love? Hristova’s second poetry book explores themes of love, romance and sexuality as they are intertwined with the patriarchy. Questioning how she gains her power as a woman, Hristova attempts to unwind the complicated nature of relationships, societal expectations, and the imbalance of power between the sexes. The Other Crown is a love letter to women: their love lives, their heartbreaks, and their friendships with one another.
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upon crowning her
I am not
a trophy;
I am the crown that
you wear on your head,
anointing you.
I am not
an acquisition;
I am the coronation
you adorn,
granting you royalty.
I am not
the medal that
you enclose around
your neck;
I am the scepter
you grasp,
bestowing you favor.
I am not
a prize,
I am the power you
wish to
hold in the palm of
your hand.
the other crown
My previous-self wanted to be
a princess fit with golden gloves and a
crown placed on my head to rule with
glass slippers wrapped around my feet,
hiding inside a fortress I
built for myself, waiting for
someone to find me.
This previous woman, this weaker woman
could not balance the
heavy weight of the crown and
stand on her toes
smushed inside crystal shoes so she
bled and bled and bled and out
of her stupor, she
dislodged the weapons meant to bind her
and pulled out a sword.
This new woman, this stronger woman now
wanted nothing more than to
slay the dragons before her, and
watch the fury of the world, the fury of her heart,
spill out in front of her for
everyone to watch burn.
October 9th
I hesitate when you kiss me because I
am afraid you will taste the disaster
brewing underneath my skin. Or maybe,
my kisses taste hot, like a dangerous
sun storm raging on the broiling
surface of our most familiar star. Or maybe,
they taste cool, like a bubble rising
to the surface above a deep ocean cavern that
holds fountains of dark chaos
beneath its depths. Or maybe,
they taste fluid, like running the edges of
worn book pages across your lips, inhaling
the texture of clandestine paper and ink that
spill out unknown stories. Or maybe,
you kiss me because you are sucking
the poison that penetrates out from
the cocoon of my heart,
pulsing through abysmal channels
till it reaches the contours of my fingertips.
You probably feel it like a heat on your skin,
like an electric stove
growing too searing to tolerate. Or maybe,
you kiss me because you like
the taste of disorder; to you
it tastes sweet. To me
it feels like catastrophe.
upon identifying the day
I knew I loved you
the moment I saw you
the second time I came to
visit you in The City and you
were wearing a cerulean button-down
that matched your eyes and you
had just shaved your beard and
I wanted to kiss you, but
not like a nervous first kiss or
a slobbery wet one; but rather,
the kind of peck lovers give to one another
after being together for years and
what they’re passing between their lips
is time.
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