In act 1
You are a beacon of hope. You magic your way into a light. Mold your fingers into a touch somebody’s son needs and you need nobody. you are necessity disguised in a smile. Softness don’t got nothing on your heart and your heart, hurt before, picked up the pieces in such a way, art sprinkled mystery into the veins. they all call you a hero. You hero. You save while your limbs still look like a way home. while your body is still yours. While your mind has mind to speak for itself.
Act 2
You cook up a pot of your sugar. Sweetness that taste like a sunrise and laugh that makes a one want to get up in the morning. The sun wants to catch a glimpse while you are still you. You dance.
You Pour your essence down the gullet of somebody’s son in the name of wanting. You trick yourself into giving to destructive hands. Mistake the gesture as needing. Pick up the pieces too heavy to glue. You think there is so much magic. Why should you be alone?
A beacon is a warning. Remember. Remember. Remember what happened before the curtains drew.
Act 3
You are surprised to be here again. Sitting in the passenger’s seat of somebody’s son’s car. Tear stained reckoning and a bundle of pleads lining your lips. He thinks you’re a thing to be put in place… again. Your very existence. Your very smile is the thing crookening his back. You’ll plead for sweeter words. They always want to capture the light. They always want to take some to a different home. Softness don’t got nothing on your heart. And the son don’t trust soft.
Your body remembers things the narrator does not. Your veins, cloaked in mystery, forget the mistakes and only know the magic. Your mind jumbles into an unspeaking thing.
The sun fades. The son wonders where all the light went.
A beacon is a signal as much as it is a celebration.
You were in love with this one weren’t you? You forgot the script. Forgot this play always ends the same.
You knew there was a reason you told that boy you weren’t meant to be loved.
Epilogue
You gave away all your cooking. You starved for touch and sweetness and love. Your pieces are withering and falling to the ground. They are malnourished. You are weak. You are angry. How dare you let somebody’s something else take all of you. You eat the son. Gobble him into a thing you are willing to forget. Take all the magic you gave him and name yourself a hero in his wake. He pleads for sweeter words. You wish things were different. And get ready for the next show.