Center Stage
Neajah Brown
I’ve bought a porcelain mask with a painted smile.
It’s been worn out so many times that it has started to crack.
I taped it, so the truth wouldn’t seep through.
Every morning I wake up just to hide my face with it, and the same routine begins.
I rehearse what I say into that glass reflection, I call myself.
The most unseemly words that I dare not speak.
Now, I will not cry before my performance or I will be shunned.
As I sit in a car with music that I claim boosts my well-being,
I’ll think of what acts to present.
A smile to the ones who hand out scowls.
Nods in acknowledgment to the girls whose parents force them into church, who question my beliefs.
Giggles to the boys with snotty noses who call me an unpleasant sight.
Appreciations to the adults known as Ms. and Mr. who look down on me.
I’ll hide just like they hide their true personalities in the crevices of cliques
And I’ll continue until my audience is satisfied and their curtains may then be closed.
Except mine will stay open,
Only then will the finale begin and I may take off this porcelain mask.
Only then will I disagree with mistakes I’ve made.
The tape will wear out and I will flow through like the juice of a grapefruit.
Go against my routine and trust me, I will cry.
My muscles will loosen, so I’ll crumble to the ground, only to end up in a fetal position where my hands are soaked in sweat as I try my best to become smaller.
Head down and out of my eyes will weep what I’ve hidden.
Finally, I will bow and only then will my curtains close.
It’s been worn out so many times that it has started to crack.
I taped it, so the truth wouldn’t seep through.
Every morning I wake up just to hide my face with it, and the same routine begins.
I rehearse what I say into that glass reflection, I call myself.
The most unseemly words that I dare not speak.
Now, I will not cry before my performance or I will be shunned.
As I sit in a car with music that I claim boosts my well-being,
I’ll think of what acts to present.
A smile to the ones who hand out scowls.
Nods in acknowledgment to the girls whose parents force them into church, who question my beliefs.
Giggles to the boys with snotty noses who call me an unpleasant sight.
Appreciations to the adults known as Ms. and Mr. who look down on me.
I’ll hide just like they hide their true personalities in the crevices of cliques
And I’ll continue until my audience is satisfied and their curtains may then be closed.
Except mine will stay open,
Only then will the finale begin and I may take off this porcelain mask.
Only then will I disagree with mistakes I’ve made.
The tape will wear out and I will flow through like the juice of a grapefruit.
Go against my routine and trust me, I will cry.
My muscles will loosen, so I’ll crumble to the ground, only to end up in a fetal position where my hands are soaked in sweat as I try my best to become smaller.
Head down and out of my eyes will weep what I’ve hidden.
Finally, I will bow and only then will my curtains close.
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