Stuffed under an old idea.

The light is blazing, the one just above your head and I cannot turn it off.
You stand in it, in a muted pose that is compulsory for your own expressions seem inadequate in these lights. You lift a character on your shoulders and you put on masks.

I wait for the lights to dim, for you to step off the pedestal and walk again the way you used to, the left leg slightly askance, an unwomanly gait. The light does dim, eventually yet your mask doesn’t fall. You return home in it, the fame trailing behind you like a dog.
I watch you, inside you there is lost everyone else, every other aspect of what you use to be, the single-minded expression fixed at a nothing even when the shutters have fallen.

I think of you, of the times when your mind rests from the heavy personalities you carry like bricks, like punches on your body but, there you are in cocktail after parties, climbing, climbing the suffocating one -minded track of eating, living and breathing your vocation.

You’re lost already in the spiraling labyrinths of approvals, you’re lost because you’ve settled in your skin, you were made for success.
You’ve found your catapult and it is vaulting you away, so high into the clouds so the threads that had shaped you snap, one by one in the hideous garish light of today.

I play with my words, caress the hand grenades, for you have suits of Kevlar now, they cannot hurt you. I am a lump, a ball of rusted thoughts eating dust till my mouth tastes of ashes of dead Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays. Moribund, packed away under the bed with a broken red basket carrying your intestines, your heart and your lungs.

You, you’re gone now, I wither in the horrifying yellow of your gaze, every touch burns me and I dread the clock that tells me to be strong. I am a farce now, trapped like a rabbit in your company, your heavy hand lays on my chest, slowly choking the life out of me.


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