disclaimer: i would just like to say that i had contemplated whether or not to post this for the longest time ever, because, well, the whole performance/theatre/actor motif is hackneyed as hell. but hey, every time after i read through this, i feel more and more resolute with regards to the genuine emotion i had poured into this. while at risk of sounding like a whiny 11 year old trying desperately to sound deep, this poem truly embodies the kind of act i had to put on for some people for the longest time just to adopt a persona i believed that they would accept. so here, hold it and read it and have a share in my frivolities ~
unscripted, this thespian is unshielded and naked.
the curtains, they’re stuck, they won’t fall so
i’m left standing, stricken, in front of an applauding audience
and they don’t stop.
my cheeks stiffen and my lips crack from the sustained smiles,
i bow and bow and bow until my back contorts like a nervously chewed up straw
never realizing that this was a performance.
my vision is bleached from the onslaught of unkind spotlights and
i’m crying but they think my tears are glitter that adorn my eyelids.
the corset’s strangling the breath from my spirit,
but the flowers keep being thrown my way—
they don’t hear me, and they speak to me in roses,
so the blood their thorns draw from my fingertips—i take, and smear on my lips
to make sure my lipstick always remains bold, fierce and pretty.
that’s the only way i can fight
this illusion into the whispers of midnight,
even when the feathery winds curl around and lift
discarded ticket stubs from the pavement
to a place we don’t talk about.
if i can’t make them disappear then let me.