Edema Rue

To the theatre, regarding lights:

On the stage,

Your lights twist people into angels.

Beings too perfect to be real.

Backstage,

Though,

The lights make shadows

Where there should be none.

They make monsters,

Where there should be friends.

With shadows in their eyes, and claws on their fingers, and deep black wings behind them,

They are demons.

Sitting in the audience, I see everything I’ve ever wanted. Looking into their eyes, I see a family, and I ache because I don’t have it, and I hope because maybe someday I will.

Standing backstage, I’m confused, and a little bit hurt. Where is the life that your lights promised was hiding just behind the curtain?

“We were at a party,” she said. Like it was a matter of routine. Like it was common, easy. Like they were friends…like they were a family.

You gave them that life.

You made them that.

So why can’t you do it for me?

Why do you insist on showing me all the possibilities,

Using the example

Of every life but mine?

There is nothing real inside you.

I know that.

Every part is only an act;

Every act is only temporary.

But I thought

That maybe

Outside of the lights,

I could find love.

That maybe,

In the shadows,

You would be genuine, and true, 

That you would hold me

When I’m broken.

But 

Angel

Or

Monster

I guess I was wrong.

Object,

If you'd like.

I'm

Waiting;

Always waiting,

Rue