Onstage
My Failure is before me,
robed in blinding white,
and looks different than I would imagine.
It exhales.
I’m scrambling into Failure’s arena,
taking in its respiration for the first time
and I quiet my mouth with my hand-
as if it’s not Failure breathing
but a sleeping coma patient.
I hope Failure’s not going to wake up.
I should want the coma patient to rise,
but I stay quiet.
I sigh as I send my book to publishers.
Failure is awake.
Failure knows how to dance.
He’s professionally trained.
Failure’s elongated neck
and rippling abs mock me.
Failure is fluent in every language,
including sign and body.
Failure stares me down.
I don’t want to look Failure
in his chiseled face.
His sharp jawline carves the initials
of a broken-up couple into my spine,
but unlike trees, I’m neither sturdy nor rooted.
Failure smiles and his jaw fortifies further.
I don’t want to look.
I look.
My Failure is dressed in blinding white,
reciting words my brain can’t keep up with.
Words murmured with care. Failure’s serene eyes
and open arms make me ask the air,
“Am I dead?”
I hear breathing.
My own.