CedeRed (marcelina) wrote in litarchitecture,

pseudo performace piece
I will never be like them because
I forget to wear my eccentric clothes
or layer the insults and the glory.
I will never hold my words.
I’ll read from printed out hand me downs
that can burn at the end of every show.
They’ll clap and buy me a double
and for an instant every three months
I’ll pretend I am what I’m not.
I will never be like them because
I dye my roots religiously.
They won’t let me join the club
because I photograph funny.
I don’t cut or drown in desperation.
I play no scissors game.
I can’t ever be like them, though they
Stole my life.
Bargains at the back of a musty thrift store
somewhere in the grid of a city that would
welcome me with open arms.
…but doesn’t, because I am not one of them.
Eyeing up the latest fiction releases, aloof,
plastic-toed shoes and never trying hard
turned up pants. Still not me.
On the cover of proofs and finals,
in the culture section of the local evening paper
smiling at something other than the camera,
thinking of something other than cheese.
Oh club members. You don’t even want my fake appreciation (or a box of bonbons).
You want me to ring the puny purchases and never
check the signature because I should know it is you.
Club member extraordinaire. I bite my tongue.
I can’t light your cigarettes because you no longer
smoke anything besides your insides,
slow burning souls. Prophetic incense.
With the interviews and the muffled giggles.
Cannot laugh; members only. And I can still
smell the singed souls, but I can’t put them out.
Fire out, misery out, get your face out (of my face).
…because I am not one of them.
My close friends will hold my hand and pat
my back; and it’ll hurt, like it’s bruised but
I won’t say a thing because they are being kind,
thinking up all sorts of lies and stories.
It was luck and not talent and I’ll realize
how mediocre comforting can really be.
(And) I’ll bite my tongue again not to show them
the tears, on cue. I’ll nod at the attempts,
agree with what is being said and
this is when I think of cheese. Melted
and stinking plastic. I might lose my appetite
over it, wondering if it would all
change if I stopped swallowing. Tantrums.
I can play all the standing up straight games
I like, and whoosh my token pretty skirts
until there is no wind or the game is no longer fun.
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