Cut. End scene.
The curtains draw on a picturesque set-up,
The lead looking up with hope to the future
As the side people look at them, offering encouragement,
The dearest friend providing a fond gaze.
The green of summer and the warmth of the dawn
Offer a new beginning to all - or so it seems,
And the promise of a break in the school year and the cycle
Lends the play a perfect place
To stop.
But it doesn't, does it?
The lead goes away, hopping off stage with a satisfied smile,
And they greet the real friends they've kept with them,
Gifted with flowers and fawning as soon as they are off.
The side people get some praise, but the best friend?
The "best friend" is nowhere to be found.
No, they are crying in the bathroom stall,
Nursing their makeup-stained face in shaking palms
As they look to their misshapen form and bruised ankle
That betrayed them. Prevented them from being something more.
Something like the lead. Something worth of love.
The tears dry, and the stranger stares,
Staring into the shaded glass of the mirror,
And they see the monster of shadow that lurks behind their eyes,
The hunger of an inner child that was denied the right to live.
Blank eyes gaze back at them, and they sigh,
Wiping their tears dry.
The tears dry, and they move on,
Remembered and remarked by no one
Because no one cared to wait for them,
Because as far they were concerned,
The best ending had already come to a close.
YOU ARE READING
Rose, Prose, Poetry
PoetryExploring topics of love, limerence, grief, and everything in between, this is a collection of 100 poems written over a year. The works both reflect inner emotions and outward connections, attempting to capture the interconnected nature of the worl...
