The Girl Who Rehearsed Herself Into Being
A poem about the masks we wear, and the selves that breathe beneath them
The curtain exhales and the room inhales me.
Light unbuttons the dark, seam by seam,
until I’m stitched to the air with gold thread.
***
Powder clouds rise like smoke from confession.
My reflection waits, patient as a saint with no miracles left,
while I fasten my face into belief.
***
The rouge remembers every secret I’ve silenced.
It burns against the bone as if shame were color.
The lips — practiced, painted, obedient —
promise feeling they’ve never met.
***
Somewhere beyond the stage’s ribcage,
an audience gathers like rain.
They’ll call it art. They’ll call it brave.
They won’t know bravery is just precision,
and I’ve measured every breath.
***
The mirror leans closer.
She asks if I’m ready to be loved.
I say yes and mean maybe.
Truth doesn’t survive lighting cues.
***
Underneath it all, my skin hums like a radio
tuned between frequencies —
a self that can’t quite come through.
***
I bow to the invisible.
Applause erupts in the hollow between ribs.
Even silence claps for the illusion.
***
Later, when I wash the night from my face,
the sink fills with women I’ve been.
They shimmer briefly before they drown.
Only one looks back —
unpainted, unperforming, unfinished.
***
She doesn’t ask who I am.
She asks who’s still pretending.
About the Creator
Fatal Serendipity
Fatal Serendipity writes flash, micro, speculative and literary fiction, and poetry. Their work explores memory, impermanence, and the quiet fractures between grief, silence, connection and change. They linger in liminal spaces and moments.
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Comments (1)
Sweet entry. ⚡️💙⚡️