My Queen of Hearts

You are the Queen of Hearts.  Your sickly pulse beats through my ears.  Your hair as red as fresh blood, your flesh as pink as a sick man's, your eyes as black as your heart, if you even have one. How peculiar, the people would think, the Heartless Queen of Hearts.
You bestow upon yourself greatness.You cry yourself to sleep for this decision.  You cry red tears.You grow a garden of red roses.  How mighty similar, the people would think, you and the glorious red rose.
You grow and blossom.  However, the seasons change.  Your petals drift to the ground, red against white snow.  When your petals fade, I do hope you do realize that you are no longer a flower, just a thorn covered stem. A prickly stem, the people would think, sounds mighty close to what something someone would call a weed.