“A Crown Is Not a Name”

by Alec Caereth

They taught me how to stand too tall,

To speak in steel and silence.

They carved a prince from softer clay

And taught him not to bend.

They dressed me up in firelight

And told me it was gold.

But flames, I’ve learned, will eat the hand

That dares to try and hold.

They taught me when to smile and nod,

What truths to sheath in lies.

A polished heir, a perfect son—

A kingdom’s pretty guise.

They gave me rooms with vaulted glass,

With views too high to breathe.

But windows are not open doors,

And thrones are not reprieves.

They say I wear my blood with pride.

I do—because it stains.

Because it’s not a gilded gift,

But chains with sweeter names.

They think that power makes us gods,

Untouched, above, alone.

But every crown I’ve ever seen

Is just a sharpened throne.

So call me prince, and call me heir—

Say I was born to reign.

But I would trade this hollow fate

To just be called by name.