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Curtain Call
(is an audience-led call for a performer or performers to return to the stage after a performance, typically in response to applause.)


The curtains open.
And there I am — on this stage.
Out on display.
Trying to obtain your love
and Grace.
Makeup to highlight my face.
Girdle to shape my waist.

Theater with seats filled.
Mommy,
Daddy,
family,
friends,
you.

Sitting front and center.
Still trying to figure out your sender.

In the meantime…
Let me show you my tricks —
my infamous skills —

all those 
“look mommy”
“look daddy”
spaces that went unfulfilled.

You smile.
You laugh.
Your enjoyment is my fuel.
My gas.

To keep this car driving.
Driving me insane.

Because in this spotlight
is where I feel the most pain.
I’m tired of dancing —
but I have to keep you all entertained.

Me up here
is what will keep you to stay.

It’s time for the next scene.
The curtains close.
Running in the back.
The dressing room.
Time to change.
This version of me
you want to replace.

Curls must be straight.
Red lipstick stained on my face.
Heels instead of sneakers
to help me run this race.
No jeans,
so bring a dress just in case.

The curtains open.
Am I beautiful to you again?
Do I look like your Barbie?
Do I make you feel like Ken?
Does your heart pitter-patter —
like it once did before?
Or is something missing?
Or do you need more?

Up here
for you!

All for you
to make room
for me.

On my tippy toes;
prancing around.
I’m your pretty ballerina.

So elegant.
So graceful.
So free.

So
not
me.

But only the version
you desire
of me.

I’m uncomfortable.
I’m exhausted.

This spotlight brings so much heat.
It’s shining directly on me.
Hope you see my fatigue.
Hope you see
the tears collecting in my eyes.
Hoping you’d get on this stage
and interrupt these lies.

Hoping you’d cut me loose
from these puppet strings
I’m tied.

But instead
you buy me more…
Heels,
Dresses,
and red lipstick.
This is who
you would rather see.

If not,
your sighs
are signs
of disappointment
to me.
So I continue
spinning
on my feet.
The red lipstick is fading.
Almost turning pink.
Straight hair is curling.
Heels
causing blisters
on my feet.
Suddenly…
You stopped clapping.
You stopped cheering.
Now —
You complain.
You scorn.

This isn’t me.
Don’t know who you want?
But this isn’t me.

Do you even know me?
Do you even see me?
Do you even hear me?

You don’t.

There’s this version of me
you love.
A version
I can’t upkeep.

Please —
close these curtains.
I beg.
Next scene.

The curtains open.

And there
I would not be.
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