The Contortionist

Image courtesy of: Megan Missfit

one day,
the contortionist says
she does not want to be looked at
any longer.

she begs and prays
for someone to lead her
off the stage
only to realise
her ego wilts
without the warmth of a spotlight
and showers of applause.

poor little flower
she still nurtures
scraps of pain from childhood
that root her insatiable desires
to be loved widely and deeply
in crimson shades of impossibility
that a singular he
could not hope to
ever be.

and so she,
tarnished thorns and famished leaves,
returns to the freaks and rejects
re-paints her mask
and twists her feelings
into familiar almost-disasters
and the crowd cheers
(like the old days)
(like always)
but they nor happiness ever stay.

who knows
when she’ll realise
false nourishment
does not sustain life
and it was never about the circus
or him (nor him nor him)
but her?