for my first act,
my mind is drawn and quartered.
for my second act,
my body is crushed with heavy stones.
for my third act: i must sew my mouth shut
when all i want to do is rip my throat open from the force of my scream.
the pain of the needle grounds me
though it is not sterile, it is all i have.
my monstrous blood swiftly stains the thread, the stage,
and, less importantly, my clothes.
"my mother never taught me to sew," i say with a smile,
"but she did tell me that i talk too much."
when i am finished, i bow with a flourish,
to scattered applause.
the crowd has quickly become bored.
they have seen this tired performance before,
they crave something new.
they demand entertainment.
so, i will give them the show they want;
for my final act, i will disappear.