Gaze at me, with you ever-so-slight smudged lipstick
Pop-punk lyrics issuing from your perfect mouth
Dark circles from the khôl and folly
Forgiveness from your youth
Torsion of perfection into a wry smile
Sober, you say, drunk, who'll walk upon my style?
Who'll dare? I dare, in laying bare, ballet hands,
The contents of my *****; You know, friends,
I may be an actress, and pretentious,
But my ability to lie's contentious.

I will, for I can, go beyond my station now
Wherefore should I be confined? And how
You will wonder at me in the future,
Which I shall make my present, forgetting the suture
That has held my mouth - It is not a scar;
And I have a million things to say as they are,
Or as they might be - I will ape Almodóvar
And outshine Solovjov, and will I go far!
I will be She of the next generation;
But I must get beyond this station
I must move beyond the static,
From the bedroom to the attic,
And from thereon, to the world,
When my courage has unfurled;
And I will seize this with both hands
And deal you wonder, charm and reprimands:
I will paint you images, and write you songs,
Celebrate your joy, and right your wrongs,
Pick at the intricacies, and throw the obvious,
Show humankind as honest and oblivious,
And I will do this all, and watch me so -
I just need to ready, set, and go.

I'd hide myself beneath a thousand walls
I'd suffocate, to satisfy the audience
With dying breath, through countless curtain calls
But this is life, it has to be, this penance
Paid for past sins, cancelled shows from long ago
I wear them like armour, the scars deep inside
I fear the wounds to come, the unforeseen blow
Unravelled secrets, truths no longer denied
It doesn't matter, the blood on the floor,
It doesn't matter that I've nothing to say,
For a second on stage, I'm the one they adore,
A moment of heaven in the hell of each day.
If I could become something else, forever
Unblemished, unfeeling, without any flaws
The perfect artiste in every endeavour
Perhaps I'll finally deserve the applause.

I don’t want to cut myself open on a stage,
Make my blood curdle on command.
Applaud me, will you?
This idea of sisterhood, this union
At the end of the play
One lives, one dies, and one has the glory
of letting the curtain fall down
Down on the story
Performed to move people.

I’m not a performer,
Not a thespian, actress or Janus,
I have the one face and that’s all I’ve got,
Like it or not.
My clothes are not a costume,
There’s no cue for me
That tells when to go on.
I speak now, with lines rehearsed
To keep playing the fool
The one no-one listens to.

Do you like me?
Do you like me?
Do you like me?
Please applaud.

I am not an act, waiting for an audience.
I do not respond to applause,
There’s no curtain call,
No stage light in my place
That tells me where to fall.

I can’t keep playing
Can’t keep pretending
I’m the one who decides to walk out
On all of this, now.
It’s the final call, that one last bow
And thus ends the show,
See you next week, with all your friends in tow.

A standing ovation,
A brief revelation
I don’t want this, quick,
Act like it’s all part of it,
Stumbling’s funny, err on the side of performance,
Don’t reveal the truth, don’t bleed on the stage floor,
It’s all fake. All pretend, I’m no actor,
but I perform every minute of the day.
I’m not sure my heart’s real.

The world tells you to be happy
that you should be happy
you've said all the right jokes
made people smile
made them laugh
played the role well
you have good friends
and even a good family
and they all say they love you
and usually that's enough

But in the end
the lights will be turned off
the part over
and the crowd gone
then you find yourself
taking that long road
back to where you don't want to be
back to being alone

When you get there you'll find
that joy was merely in the moment
that happiness was not yours
you never owned it
and if you lean on it
trust it to get you through
you'll fall farther than before
farther than you knew possible
because all those people can say they love you
but it doesn't mean you do

The next time I killed her
it felt forced
too practiced, rehearsed.
And whilst the movement
and the blood
still flowed
I wasn't able to feel
the same spurt
of the joy of completion
and whilst the execution,
was in essence still 'killing',
it was kinda dull, like a boring drilling.

I'll have to try again.

The next time he killed me
I was ready for it
so I lent into it.
And whilst it still stung
I was able to ride the trauma
kept my good side to the camera
and whilst the transition
was in essence still 'dying'
it was kinda arousing, exciting.

I think the third time
might be even better
by some measure.

I'll have to wait
and see.