IT’S EMPTY TODAY.
The stage is empty, the lights are all on and streaming white fluorescent, and the floor is polished.
I stand on the floor with little hope in my mouth and a dry throat that screams for more
Sitting down in my chair backstage, shut behind a door with stars around my name,
I don’t think I have anything else to lose . No more to give away, nothing left on my body. The plastic melds against my back, and it feels warm. Uncomfortably warm, with the black sequins of my shirt clinging to the curve of my back like a large brace. Too warm to be sunshine,
I run back out, ignoring the calls of several people – my manager, my parents on the phone, my Twitter Timeline, the Facebook feed blowing up with pictures of fish-netted girls and pale-skinned girls and girls who change their Chinese name to something else, selling out to Western markets in order to buy into their own dreams. I step onto the empty stage with a sense of longing to be on it again, despite the nerve-attacks and
I want to feel it all again. I want to feel the
pleasurable pain of a dream
Come to life.