Sell me a space in the shadows,
let me live behind a locked door,
surrounded by the sweetness of unspeculative silence.
I care for the kind of quiet that doesn’t guess,
a lush loneliness,
moonlight serenade of stillness.
I am sleeping in the dreams of somebody else tonight,
littered with letters,
sewn onto my skin,
because I stopped being convincing, somewhere in my second act,
according to some of my harshest critics.
Now, the stage is bare.
I sleepwalk as the audience screams,
so many crossed voices and contradictory phrases.
All of the things I was supposed to be to all people,
spill around my shaking legs,
and I am submerged.
Who am I?
What am I?
What I am, is “not ready”.
Is that an option?
Can I find that on a form that I can fill in and pass to the furious crowd?
Is that such a crime?
It there a set time in which I must be presented,
centre stage, ready to be torn to pieces with a smile?
I am not ready,
but they are waiting.
Sell me a space in the shadows,
let me live behind a locked door,
surrounded by the sweetness of unspeculative silence.
They storm the stage,
accusations and assumptions circling angry expressions,
and all I can do is stumble towards the back of the bare stage,
begging for mercy,
because I am not ready,
and I don’t know what they want from me,
but they are so… hungry.
Sincerely, Jennifer x 