Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Women of Manhattan
John Patrick Shanley
I do the illusion well. I throw my hair in front of my face, sort of hiding the fear, the madness. There’s a spot on my forehead where if you shine a light directly on it, you can see what I’m avoiding. What I’m refusing to tell you even if I’m seemingly being honest. On the right side of my face is the mechanism, disguised by my eyebrow, designed to flicker ever so slightly every single time a dream of mine is being ridiculed.
My clothes are every day clothes. They are comprised of some fashionable items and mostly hand-me-downs. They hide what I won’t show anyone: a tattoo of what I really really want. The amount of money I think I should be earning. The amount of money I actually earn. The amount of money I dream about when I’m letting the grass grow green in my mind. My shoes, holding the soul…are lace ups, or boots, and the soul in each shoe is tattered and covered in band-aids from all the rubbing.