Like the scar of age

Written all over my face

The war is still raging inside of me

I still feel the chill

As I reveal my shame to you

I wear it like a tattoo

I’m not sure what to feel. My face has been retouched like an old black and white photograph, the dull grays replaced by too brilliant color. I am masked, hidden in my perfect black dress, in the back of the perfectly black limo, on this perfectly appropriate rainy LA day. A hundred doors open, our movements, all of them, synchronized, black mushrooms blooming all at once, protecting us from the tears of heaven. My heels crunch loudly against the gravel, making obscene noises in this sacred place. Somehow it seems wrong to be dry and protected here.

There is a wind now and I watch amused as the mushrooms shift, unable to protect anyone any longer. I watch him clear his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously as he waits politely for the actors to settle. He’s perfect too. His face lined with wisdom (but not too lined), his full head of dark hair highlighted by gray (but not too gray), his skin the only appropriate color. I am certain he answered the casting call this morning, “Why yes, I’m familiar with the Word of God.”

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,

I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies:

thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life:

and I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever."

I watch the puppets move with wary glances at my mother. She has their strings pulled too tightly, their movements are intertwined with hers. On queue she emits one sad, lonely sob this is immediately followed by a chorus of well scripted responses. I watch them dance jerkily, disappearing behind the curtain, only to have her tug their strings, ensuring that they will always dance for her. I bite the hands that feed me until I reach bone, leaving the gash raw and open. I can always taste the blood in my mouth, dripping onto my lips, spilling down my chest until it pools under me. My existence is the salt in her wound, refusing to let it heal. I have no strings.

I’m an actor too you see. I bend with a practiced movement, grimacing as my manicured nails slide beneath the dirt. It’s wet and blackened now, there will be no pleasantries here. I drop the clump of mud into the hole listening as it strikes the coffin with a resounding smack. I rub my black hand against my black dress allowing the dirt to stain me again. I reach for the mannequin’s hand, but she shies away, I am too dirty now. My contempt runneth over. I’m not sure what to feel. I’m not sure I can feel anymore.