I watch from backstage—

you laughing, you shining, you owning the silver lining;

you singing, you dancing, you who there finds belonging.

How come only one curtain apart,

yet my limbs are stiff, my throat is parched;

my features are stony, my breath is short,

and I—have no light.

So I man the props and pull the levers,

and readies the stage orders

to throw a spotlight on you,

to raise the platform on which you stand,

to unleash a petal shower on top of your head.

But who will look at me?

Without a fancy outfit, or Prince Charming waiting

for me, at the grand finale,

without lipstick or a crown,

but just me, with my knotted hair, freckles, and mismatched socks.

Me,

who yearn that I was the one they were praising.

When the curtain comes down, they still chant your name.

You wave, you smile. You don’t invite me to your side,

but I’ve too, memorized all the lines,

and I can practice with the walls.

But no one ever asked,

so there I remained, watching, 

from backstage.