Behind the curtain,
emotions lie in wait
to take the stage.
In no certain order:
hurt, happiness,
some sort of longing—
while the spotlight
is on rage.
Each one steps forward
to perform and take its bow—
before the crowd of thoughts
that I’m supposed to manage
somehow.
So I compartmentalize.
I build rooms,
I close all the doors.
Rooms without ceilings,
rooms without floors.
Backstage, fear lingers
beneath love,
and happiness
is wrapped in guilt.
The crowd keeps asking
what comes next.
I stand behind the curtain,
trying to find my cue—
as if I wrote the script,
as if I knew.