On the stage, I step from behind the curtain and pray until its over.
After, I feel the tickle of a whisper coming from those behind my back.
Feels like being trapped under the ice of a frozen pond.
They are standing on the icy surface, looking down and laughing.
My muscles clenched in cold and searing pain of suffocation.
This myth is what keeps my mind in its place.
In truth, No one wastes a whisper on me.
I am a ghost who has lost its haunt.
A thought that might have formed.
If only I could shed the layers of swaddling cloths.
And withstand the beating into uncertain unconsciousness.
Then, I might emerge from the icy waters as,
But, I have tasted the safety of the genie.
And I have acquired a mountain of tools to hide behind.
The more of them I have, the closer I think I am to being me.
They will fly me out on their wings into the world and drop me gently on a pile of pillows.
But truth points out that I have traveled no further on this map of lies.
I am the cowardly explorer with no compass.
The thought that never formed.
The ghost with no haunt.