Musings of a Dove

Pretense

There is nothing more disgusting to me than the way you feign having your feelings hurt.

The audacity of expecting me to care for you after you tore my heart out.

The nerve of pretending to have feelings....

How insulting it is to me when you put on the act and expect me to clap blindly like the rest.

Have you forgotten I used to be a prop? I was there after the curtain dropped, every night, after every show.

Oh, and what a season we had!

Perhaps that's just what you see me as: a dumb prop, never being able to evolve past my condition, not smart enough to see through your manipulation.

I watch you shed great big tears for a stranger whose life descended into violence and darkness.

The audience is impressed; their eyes follow you with real emotion dancing within.

You are, if nothing else, a great performer.

In fact, that's exactly what you are...Nothing.

I guess you'd disagree.

If I were to guess who you think you are ...I'd say you think you are God.

And how could I possibly contradict you? After all you created a world where everyone but you is to be judged, where your benevolence is never questioned, and where your most atrocious deeds do not cast a reflection on your character but on those you chose to inflict them on.

My eyes follow you out of curiosity; I am in admiration of how well you play the part. Tears dance on the edges of your eyes as you recount the pain of the stranger that has affected you so. The crack in your voice aligns perfectly with the tremble going through your body and the dance is complete.

The audience is enthralled; they lean in to console you.

You did it again! You got them to give you a sea of real emotion for a few drops of theatrics.

And then the curtain drops.

I get judging glances from those with tears in their eyes and love in their heart for you. My reaction seems to them unnatural and cold.

You quickly observe this and return for an encore, you enhance your performance, cover yourself with meekness and meet my cold gaze with fearful, hopeful, loving eyes.

Another smashing success, as pity mixes in with the admiration you had managed to coax earlier.

Sometimes I think back to when this show took place while I still wore the signs of your cruelty  on my body. I chuckle internally at the thought of uncovering myself to your audience.

Could you imagine their shock?

 I'm guessing you can. 

I'm guessing you have.

I'm guessing you had a script worked out for that as well. You ended up not needing it. Your talent carried you through it all.

You had convinced both me and the world that you were good beyond a doubt and had the best intentions.

You also prompted the descent of my world into violence and darkness, and since I couldn't doubt or judge you, I did it to myself. I saw each attack, each mark on my body as indisputable proof that I was bad, rotten on the inside.

I was so ashamed.

Back then, I didn't think I was hiding your secret, but my own. I thought the world would see my scars and think only of what manner of horrible deeds I must have committed to drive a benevolent force such as yourself to this gruesome course of action.

It took me years to see through your façade, and I am still unlearning my part, still refusing to say my lines.

You, ever the performer, still sing the same tune. You bring a repertoire of guilt and sadness and familial closeness to get me to sing along, but I just watch you silently.

You cry and accuse me of not loving you, expecting me to quickly say my lines by reflex, to contradict you. I say nothing.

Your anger is inflamed. You hate being ignored.

But it is too late, I am out of the biz.

I leave you to your audience, to be worshiped as God.

Remember to not let them get too close, they may just end up seeing that you are Nothing.