by Joy H., 14
In a castle
on top of the prince’s room
(his rage cage, more like it)
there is a gray vent
In the very same castle
on the floor of a handmaiden’s room
or should I say, her tower of doom
there is a gray vent
Locked up
unknown to the world
she cries
her silent tears
dripping through the vent
onto the prince’s cheek
where he lies in bed
with one eye open
Waiting
for the tears to drop
the tears from a beautiful, delicate handmaiden
the tears he longs for
the tears he yearns for
the tears that keep him alive
Anguished, suffering
overly exposed to the world
he slams
his door into its frame
his clothes into their drawer
his heavy crown onto his bedside table
and the sound travels
up, into the handmaid’s bedroom
where she lies on the floor by a tiny window
Waiting
for the loud sounds
the ruckus from a handsome, overworked prince
the slamming she longs for
the banging she yearns for
the noise that keeps her alive
Brooklyn, New York
Bridge Ink 