My hands are comma, cupping the silence

through gritted teeth and slipping palms.

The air is thick, heavy on my shoulders

and I taste reckless abandon on my tongue just to get it over with

like a sour punch to the gut.

My heart’s tied down weakly by it’s strings,

pulled taut and beginning to fray from overuse.

I think it’s going to float away

My fingers are fidgeting slightly, commas

are overflowing into unsure periods as sweaty black ink

spills over the rim into a Rorschach blot on the floor.

I can picture the ending sooner than the beginning.

The limelight’s bitter under that stark lemon glow,

and I swallow the citrus bulge beckoning bile back down my throat.

Oh no, no, no, no, no.

This could go so well, or it can go oh so wrong,

but I’ll never know

if I don’t try.

I gab hold of my heartstrings and wrap them around my fingers

like brass knuckles.

The curtain swirls around me like the train of a gown.

It’s showtime.