the curtain trembles, and the world holds its breath. once again, he steps into the light- that holy, blinding sun of which the rays know no mercy. they rise for him, they always do. every clap an echo, every echo a chain. he smiles, they’ve come to see him smile. he laughs, they’ve paid to believe it. the mask fits better now than his own face. painted lips, powdered skin, a shell of joy over cold bone. he’s forgotten where he ends and the act begins. offstage the mirrors bow their heads. they know his secret: that applause is a hunger and silence, a noose. tonight the performance runs long. his voice cracks, but the violins rise to drown it. he bows once more, hands trembling under the weight of the light. and when rays fade, and the audience vanishes into the dark; he removes the mask, slowly, tenderly, as if peeling away his own skin. the world will remember him smiling, standing tall with gold and thunder, never seeing the tears that kissed his collar, never hearing the whisper that followed the silence. until a red smile was drawn on his neck.
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