the actress
lights, camera, action—
she cries on cue again.
every tear rehearsed
to look like redemption.
the audience leans in,
ready to forgive her
for a scene she wrote herself.
she never needed villains—
just people patient enough
to hold the script steady
while she rewrote the ending.
when truth got too close,
she blurred the lens,
cut the reel,
and played innocence in soft focus.
she calls it empathy—
i call it editing.
no one sees the off-screen damage,
the names erased
before the credits roll.
someone always bleeds
when she wants applause.
too numb to feel
the weight of her own actions,
but willing enough
to set the stage ablaze
and call it art.
her lipstick stains the script,
a red signature of ruin—
proof that beauty and chaos
can share the same mouth.
the crowd still claps,
unaware the fire’s real.
and as the ashes rise,
she bows with trembling hands—
the star of a tragedy
she’ll never claim to have written.
scene.
feedback:
Posted Oct 11, 2025, 7:57 AM UTC