Curtain Call

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.