The UNSPOKEN

There is a woman on the stage 

and she is smiling.

She crafts a good narrative — 

flashes well-practiced smiles 

and laughs at her awkward jokes. 

She sings and never stutters, 

dances without a stumble.

Her heart is made of ivory and gold. 

She is honey 

and kindness 

and she is the air that good things breathe.

She is wildfire 

and hatred 

and she is hell itself

The ensemble echoes all the supporting facts: 

straight As, 

a well-carved path, 

a trophy case full of awards. 

The ensemble asks her 

how it feels to be perfect, 

to look at the sun and know 

you are one in the same. 

“It feels generous,” 

she says, 

“like the world is giving itself to me.”

“It hurts, it hurts, it hurts,” 

she says, 

“like the world is crumbling on top of me”

For a moment, 

from the furthest part of the audience,

I see a glimmer 

of something else in her eyes. 

It looks a little like sadness 

and a little like sin. 

In a blink, 

it is gone; 

I am not sure 

if it was ever there. 

The woman starts to dance.

She spins 

and twirls 

and the rest of the audience 

is distracted. 

It is dizzying to watch her, 

to find that sadness 

I could’ve sworn I saw, 

and then she puts back on 

the mask. 

Another flash of well-practiced smiles,

another awkward joke. 

She must have been born 

on this stage. 

She has never left it

All too soon, 

The show is over. 

There is no curtain call, 

and the audience starts to file out 

in simple rows. 

They believe her. 

There is a girl behind the curtain 

and she is crying