Fragile

I want to close my eyes. I want to close my eyes and pretend that what is infront of me staring me in the face isn't actually there. With my eyes closed I can fool even myself, however superficially, that what I am looking at before me isn't the reality, and that when I open my eyes I will see something different. Something better. Something beautiful. Something that I have not created. Something that I cheated to win. The prize that I cut corners to score. And, Oh God, did it pay off. But I feel my eyelids open far too quickly, and I realise that this delicious dream has come to an abrupt and violent end. I have let this happen. And now I am being forced to deal with the proof that is my reflection in my bathroom mirror, and a set of weighing scales underneath my feet. My undeserving, lazy feet, between which I watched a number creep up and up and up. Past my old favourites. Leaving me with nothing but the bitter taste of my guilt and punishment at the back of my throat, and the scabs creeping up on my knuckles again.

The show has finished now. The performer has collected all the roses you threw on stage, and the choreography, I agree, was a good deal above average. Or at least, that's what they'll learn to say. She has floated towards the wings, and the crimson fold of the curtain has kissed the stage's tired face, spreading red over it's bland practicality with a heavy, glistening coat. Please leave your seats, review, and move on. This was always designed to be a sudden ending.


And I intend to keep it that way.