Every day is a curtain call for a play I never signed up to perform. I paint on a smile with the precision of a professional, layering the colors to hide the pallor of a heart that is slowly breaking. We are taught that the world is a stage, but no one tells you how exhausting it is when the costume is too heavy and the lines feel like lies. To live as an actress in one's own life is to be the star of a tragedy that everyone else thinks is a comedy, always waiting for the lights to dim so I can finally let the mask slip.

The Costume of the Hollow Star

The curtain rises on a staged and steady grace,

I paint a bright composure on a weary face.

Each word is measured and each gesture finely tuned,

To hide the evidence of every secret wound.



I am the master of the laugh that rings so hollow,

With practiced steps that all the happy people follow.

But in the wings, where shadows claim the silent air,

I am a ghost of someone who was never there.



I feel the failure in the tremor of my hand,

A clumsy player in a role I didn't plan.

The lines are slipping and the makeup starts to run,

Beneath the glaring heat of a relentless sun.



Is there a prize for being someone I am not?

For staying trapped within this suffocating plot?

The audience applauds the ghost, the fake, the shell,

While I am drowning in this gilded, scripted hell.



I am a failing actress, tired of the play,

Longing for the strength to throw the mask away.

To stand before the world, unpolished and unseen,

And kill the perfect girl who lives upon the screen.