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    poetry


    dots Submission Name: Backstagedots
    --------------------------------------------------------





    Author: Jester_Gesture
    ASL Info:    23/f
    Elite Ratio:    3.41 - 365/459/201
    Words: 774
    Class/Type: Story/Angst
    Total Views: 1218
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 4180



    Description:
       This is about the Harvest Festival my youth group had in '03. Actually, it's more about what happened to me while I was helping with it.


    Make the font bigger!! Double Spacing Back to recent posts.

    dotsBackstagedots
    -------------------------------------------




    I am afraid of backstage.
    The darkness still lingers under hanging costumes.
    Your voice echoes on the table where you tasted my fear.
    A silence deep upon the piano just outside the door…
    That was played for you, and I played it well.
    And gloves I slipped on to hide shaking hands.
    While I inside I should have known to run away.

    A sandwich shared at the table. Begged for, bought, consumed. A story told of exactly six olives, and mixed drinks, a daily meal for people I’ll never know. Sitting on a table that might as well fall over like your hair is in your face and your smile is in your eyes and that sandwich is in your stomach. That sandwich that is mine. I couldn’t bear to see you hungry.

    Just like you couldn’t bear to see me waste away or thirst for love. You took an order, two shots? Yes, please. And off across an empty parking lot while I sat in silence, remembering out first encounter with much less caffeine and an unfamiliar twist to your smile. Ten minutes later there’s coffee in my hand and an arm around my shoulders, a whisper in my ear. Is everything going to be okay? In the end, in the end, in the end…

    The end of every act was a tradition of drinking upon that stimulated liquid and chewing on sugary things. Placed in baskets and buckets and plastic bags, pillow cases even. I ran back and forth across stages and floors to find lost souls, placed unknowingly in our lives that day. Who are they? Who am I? Who are we? And yet…who are you?

    You, came into my life without asking. All I said was that I would help. Nothing more will come from this, I thought. Nothing more, nothing less. We are in essence, co-workers. Like two people who sit at computers side by side each day. Only it’s two days a week, and this will be a stage? ….Nothing more! I said I would help. I never asked for your twisted smile, your lips on my hand, your whisper to calm, to soothe…. Alright, so maybe I wanted a little comfort now and then to take away everything. But why did comfort make everything so much more difficult?

    Everything was ridiculous, ludicrous, meaningless, in my eyes. Especially my eyes. I felt like an idiot. In one simple act, I pretended to be blind and called out to your character and was healed! Healed by one who gave you to me. But it was torture. Everything was torture. You were calm, collected, and I was saying my thanks with eyes wide and bright voice. Thank you.

    Yes, back then I was thankful. But when it was all over we went backstage to clean up the mess. My heart broke in two as all life’s troubles returned to me. No caffeine filled drink could help, no smile could cheer me up. There was only one thing I wanted, and you were not it. No, thank you. In my misery, I put away costumes and props we had used. Backstage still seemed ordinary. I sniffled. Tears. You came in. Whispers. And your arms opened. For a moment I thought, I might as well. For a split second I was in your arms and it felt so right but I knew it wasn’t. It was wrong. You were wrong, I was wrong, it was all wrong and I had to stop it. I ran away. A shocked expression on your face, I began to put the rest of the things away. I told you I would be fine. You weren’t reassured.

    And I was fine, for a while. Months later you dared to kiss me. When you didn’t remember, I decided not to tell you about it. It didn’t matter. I said that you were charming, but charming isn’t what people look for anymore. Charming is cruel. It gives people a good impression and when they finally see the real you, they don’t respect you any more.

    I am afraid of backstage.
    The darkness still lingers under hanging costumes.
    Your voice echoes on the table where you tasted my fear.
    A silence deep upon the piano just outside the door…
    That was played for you, and I played it well.
    And gloves I slipped on to hide shaking hands.
    While I inside I should have known to run away.
    …So I ran away.





    Submitted on 2004-10-10 15:22:09     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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    ||| Comments |||
      Nice job Katie. Like I said, you have a real talent for storytelling. Might this perhaps be about Whistler? Just a guess. Anyway,if it's not, I have no idea who it's about.
    | Posted on 2004-11-12 00:00:00 | by AngelOutlaw | [ Reply to This ]
      I can't believe no one has commented.. I'm assuming they were all as speechless as I am. Repeating the first stanza at the end ties it all in. This was a personal experience you're writing about, so the reader only gets the hints of what was happening. But you hinted well and I was left to draw my own conclusions.

    He wasn't what you needed, but it felt right. And there was a bigger picture. It's really great.
    | Posted on 2004-11-10 00:00:00 | by reid kat | [ Reply to This ]


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