My undoing is brought to you by an email alert for a school I never attended– an unidentified female was found unconscious in the bushes in front of the white house with red awnings on College Ave, it is still unclear what brought her there– the campus will continue to be disrespectfully picturesque and as it has always been and the brick buildings and pathways will be the only ones to remember this apart from you, you will never be able to unwitness yourself

I will become undone in the most spectacular way, a spectacle as in you sitting and watching the pitiful show I have been putting on. You even clapped and whistled for an encore when I fell panting to the dusty wooden floor I haven’t swept in months because I have not found the strength and…everything can maintain its immaculate image if you don’t stare too closely or too long

The discomfort you are bound to feel is only for the moment, you will convince yourself how unfortunate it is that you arrived a few minutes too early, and caught the star with unlined lips and barely any lashes to speak of, such a shame you will explain away the screeching feedback from the mics and the red rims around sunken eyes: it’s fatigue, the next one will surely be better than this, surely

I am extinguishing myself with every new keystroke, my end is waiting in the fist that has temporarily uncurled to write this to you and you helped; I even tried to keep the curtain up to show the sloppy scene changes and the faulty equipment jutting a little too far out of the wings

And so am I to blame for relishing the completion of another successful deception, for imagining myself the outrageous woman I will never be in a cloche hat topped with a feather, and a coat with a fur collar impossible to ignore, a person you cannot unfeel or forget

The stage is literal, or not. It only matters that the end is public and shared with those who are guilty and unsuspecting bystanders alike. Anywhere will do as long as you are unashamed in your wails to an unrelenting super power that you want so desperately to exist

Shake the metal armrests of the chairs in the hospital lobby until they are detached, scream in the foyer of the house so loudly that the landlord will change his mind halfway down because this one is definitely not his business, roll around in the sand, tufts of dried grass and chicken droppings at the bottom of the stairs leading to the kitchen

This is the nuclear event you have secretly been waiting for

(Image: The talented Lloyd K. Sarpong who also happens to be one of my housemates. This is a “portrait of the artist” in ducky pajamas in the middle of her undoing…)

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