The Performer
All women are performers in the show of life
I feel like a performer
Needing to show I am worthy to be chosen.
To be valued. To be a precious flower.
How can I rest in the comfort of my skin when the show must go on?
When I must ego-stroke, smile, laugh at unfunny jokes.
I must be the perfect girlfriend, wife, mother, or carer.
A woman’s life is one where we are always dancing.
Dancing on the invisible stage to an audience of men.
Where we are singing loudly with our eyes, without uttering a sound.
Because a woman always lives two lives.
The one she is born into and the one she must model herself into.
It is the hidden burden we bear.
It’s how we must live. To be kept. To feel safe.
In this harsh world where it seems our very souls will be chewed up
and spat out into the void.
So instead of shining, many women choose to shrink.
Many choose to become their own shadow and tame their fires.
Women are performers in a way they didn’t sign up for.
In a show, they never auditioned for.
All this makes me wildly mad.
But the show must go on.
And I must keep performing.
So where is my red lipstick?
