My Cardboard Balcony

This Tennis Court by Belinda Roddie This tennis court was once a skeleton of a manor, owned by a wealthy yet agoraphobic family of five: The Earl of Braggart was wistful in rooms as he scribbled away on his own arms to turn calligraphy into tattoos. His wife, the Duchess Chagrin, painted red over both eyes and cheeks, but never on the lips. Their two sons, Condemned and Confused, did sway their heads to Gregorian chants, drugging themselves with opium each night. The youngest, Daughter Slight, held a pillow to her chest even as she ate dinner, but all the family just got thinner.

Master, do not tempt me. You haunt my conscience so. You make me trip over my robes each time I pass your study. You do not lift a finger. You keep on bleeding ink. I wonder if you see me, creeping past your study. The hallways are all iron, red rusted and mocking me. I do not try to see you. I do not try to please you.