I find myself putting on a show for eyes that do not see me as human. My movements are rehearsed, not for the joy of expression, but for the survival of a woman in a world that prefers her to be spectacle.
Slowly slipping the silk of my shoulders teasing no one but the walls. The air around me is cool, indifferent, The only thing that touches me without expectation.
I am a wisp of flesh bound to earth only by wanting. A hollow figure made whole by his eyes, seeking to hold me to drag me here in this world of flesh, But I am not of it. I am thought. I am soul. I am the poetry of my own being, I am more than the silence he assumes speaks only of longing.
But I will always be flesh, The embodiment of desire, A symbol, a thing-never a whole. An empty chalice into which he pours The wine of his longing, never wondering If the vessel itself thirsts for something more.
And so the silk falls, Again and again,
For an audience that never understands
The torment of playing a role
That was never meant to be mine.
