This erratic tension is familiar; I think that's your blood boiling in a covered pot—popping open, falling shut Your nerves are at a civil war, it seems— dry and in need of chemicals, something mildly enjoyable to get you through life; beta-blockers alone will not suffice this time And there's an urgency, a rush to the back of the pack where the seats feel like a stage again, so I make myself paler and smaller for longer and later, I can't recall why I'm caged at all You say you're only happy on stage, and I'm inclined to agree now, though I don't like you this way—with skin stretched long, but released just before its snap, revealing a taut expression— sinister from this angle but beguiling from that Your nervous system betrays you, and now your shaking is shaking my ability to stand firmly here next to you, and it's odd that I even do, because I don't actually look up to you at all Of your stage, I only want to be free, but oh, how you've mastered the art of confusing me! In which place do I stand? After I relent, you don your strongest suit and rehydrate with an expensive drink—a mix of your sweat and my tears, cut with our blood, on a rock so smooth, no one believes me You bank on your eyes to get what you want;they're the type a person can turn on and off, but they must look better than they work, because you don't see me not seeing you anymore Do you think I'm still oblivious to the designer of my role? Yes, I chose to play her freely, but I think consent is something different than you seem to think consent is I don't claim the title of heroine; I'm not as brave as the stories they come in but I will admit I'm clever and when I pretend, I do it well, but when I leave, I do that even better Oh Darling, did you confuse my role as opposite with a subservient one again? but I told you I was clever My Dear, you forgot to act like you were acting again this time, Don't you see? I didn't get to sour your name for them—that was all you, Viking and I told you I was clever On my queue, you register something else—I guess it is your time, too, in a way. For this cycle, you gift me tulips in distraction's name; they'll make lovely bandaids I guess, nothing more I'm sure. I'd say spare them, so at least one of us can live, but they've already been uprooted What's one more dead flower anyway? poor, pretty tulip poor, pretty rose If a flower, I'd want to be wild, crooked, and sort of dull too, so nobody will pluck me for my beauty, just to force me into a role of their choosing in the "love story" always on repeat in their den Who wants the genome of a sunflower anyway? A strong stem, yes— with those cliched and concentric circles worthy of all the magazine covers, but people value symmetry too much; I say we freshen the backdrop and try out new lines—you've done what you needed to get yours; pay attention—this is me getting mine Beauty may be in the eye of the beholder, but possession is a transferable trait, and I signed for myself on the chain of custody one of those nights you were out late. I'm not meant to stand beside you, and, as a matter of fact, I refuse But I do invite you to stay here in dead center, as you watch my overdue exit downstage where the audience embraces my twist of your plot—they've developed a distaste for you in their gums, they've grown bored of your tricks, and tired of your tantrums; the look's unbecoming, and the theme's overdone—they're changing channels for a more uplifting one In my past, I'd have formed a bouquet of these excuses, accolades, benefits, and other baneful rationales to merit your presence, and my association with it. I'd have wrapped it in bandages, and placed it on my mantel till long past its death. I'd have thought up creative and grotesque ways to glorify it, relive it, repackage it, and even regift it, sometimes, too I'm ashamed, but I was unknowingly and insidiously housing, within me, more and more parts of you. Don't dare uproot another daisy— I've already participated in violence today. This program is officially canceled. This show must not go on. So I exit stage, literally anywhere. Your performance is officially done. ©Juliette Roanoke Originally posted on Here on Medium