{For solo performer (mask optional). Lighting: warm, then cruel. Microphone optional. Heartbreak required.}
[Lights up. One step too close to the mic. She smiles like she’s survived something.]
POET:
I said I was shattered.
[Pause—look down, then up. Like you’re remembering it too vividly.]
And the crowd snapped.
I said I couldn’t sleep.
[Soften your voice here. Sell it. They love insomnia.]
And they nodded.
I smiled at the right moments.
Let my voice break on the word left.
[Yes. That word. Linger on it.]
Called it a poem.
Called it truth.
[Invisible margin note: Remove “pathetic.” You already said “poem.” Same effect.]
POET:
And it was—
mostly.
[Look away. Smile like a secret.]
I didn’t mention
how long I waited
for him to text back.
[In script: add something about refreshing Instagram. Delete it later.]
I said he left,
not I begged.
I said I healed,
not I still Google him sometimes
just to feel something specific.
[Optional: laugh. See who laughs back.]
[Stage note: Adjust mic stand like it’s his hand on your jaw. Let them feel it.]
POET:
I sharpened the metaphors.
Cut the clumsy parts.
Dressed the grief in short skirts and darling dresses,
and made her look like a woman
you’d want to cry over.
[Look devastating here. Not sad. Iconic.]
I didn’t lie.
I edited.
[Beat.]
Like any good writer.
Like any sad girl
with an audience.
[Margin scribble: Underline “audience.” Question whether you meant “witness.” Leave both.]
POET:
I know which line they’ll post.
I know where to pause
so it sounds like I might
still be heartbroken.
[Optional: blink back a tear. If it’s real, even better.]
So it sounds like maybe
I’m brave.
[Cut alternate ending: “So it sounds like I won.” Too desperate.]
POET:
But the truth is—
I want to be loved
perfectly.
Understood
accurately.
[Harsher here. Like it’s a confession you didn’t rehearse.]
And if I have to script my suffering
to get that—
[Pause. Look right at them.]
Fine.
Cut to black.
Cue applause.
[Lights dim. She stands still. Hands at her sides. Someone coughs. Someone claps. Someone regrets texting their ex.]
[End scene.]
Apr 4, 2025
Apr 4, 2025 at 2:27 AM UTC
{For solo performer (mask optional). Lighting: warm, then cruel. Microphone optional. Heartbreak required.}
[Lights up. One step too close to the mic. She smiles like she’s survived something.]
POET:
I said I was shattered.
[Pause—look down, then up. Like you’re remembering it too vividly.]
And the crowd snapped.
I said I couldn’t sleep.
[Soften your voice here. Sell it. They love insomnia.]
And they nodded.
I smiled at the right moments.
Let my voice break on the word left.
[Yes. That word. Linger on it.]
Called it a poem.
Called it truth.
[Invisible margin note: Remove “pathetic.” You already said “poem.” Same effect.]
POET:
And it was—
mostly.
[Look away. Smile like a secret.]
I didn’t mention
how long I waited
for him to text back.
[In script: add something about refreshing Instagram. Delete it later.]
I said he left,
not I begged.
I said I healed,
not I still Google him sometimes
just to feel something specific.
[Optional: laugh. See who laughs back.]
[Stage note: Adjust mic stand like it’s his hand on your jaw. Let them feel it.]
POET:
I sharpened the metaphors.
Cut the clumsy parts.
Dressed the grief in short skirts and darling dresses,
and made her look like a woman
you’d want to cry over.
[Look devastating here. Not sad. Iconic.]
I didn’t lie.
I edited.
[Beat.]
Like any good writer.
Like any sad girl
with an audience.
[Margin scribble: Underline “audience.” Question whether you meant “witness.” Leave both.]
POET:
I know which line they’ll post.
I know where to pause
so it sounds like I might
still be heartbroken.
[Optional: blink back a tear. If it’s real, even better.]
So it sounds like maybe
I’m brave.
[Cut alternate ending: “So it sounds like I won.” Too desperate.]
POET:
But the truth is—
I want to be loved
perfectly.
Understood
accurately.
[Harsher here. Like it’s a confession you didn’t rehearse.]
And if I have to script my suffering
to get that—
[Pause. Look right at them.]
Fine.
Cut to black.
Cue applause.
[Lights dim. She stands still. Hands at her sides. Someone coughs. Someone claps. Someone regrets texting their ex.]
[End scene.]
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