Frighten the Stage

If all the world is a stage,

I wasn't handed a script,

shying from the spotlight,

hair tied with ribbons of expectations,

knotted with a bow,

"Identity" made elegant,

pretty,

pleasing.

The players all rehearse behind velvet curtains,

practicing perfect, polite smiles,

projected laughter, and poise,

content in the roles they were born to fill,

miming legacy, mouthing belonging.

But I?

I wear my name around my neck,

a talisman of rebellion,

etched in silver, unsmudged by need for applause.

My heart pulses from my wrist,

prick me I'll bleed, So you can know me,

without costume or cue,

just honest, messy, and off-tempo,

hair out of place.

They want me to bow,

to walk their thin, red carpet,

to chase participation trophies in their guilt-ridden guild.

But I speak sideways,

truth pouring from the corners of my red lipped mouth,

singing off-key,

breaking the fourth wall,

leaving through the audience,

dropping a single, crimson, rose.

I hope they gasp.

I hope they never forget the scene.

I wasn't born to perform.

I was born to be remembered.