every color of clothing is nude
when the moonlit spotlight falls upon me
unfolded across the bedroom floor
swan-neck limbs above my head
crescent palms cradle muted light
King Midas but it’s all ashes
sometimes it feels like everything I touch dies
the swan-neck droops and the cradle collapses
moonlight falls down from these parted fingers
past my collarbone to where this body becomes other
this body isn’t bad, I know
yet I can’t feel any of me below my neckline
they say love yourself, that’s how we live
but breasts & hips & curves of limbs
are not anything I’d call myself
they came upon this soul, unbidden
the only choice I made was to live with them & call them mine
although myself is somewhere tucked in a swan’s underwing
somewhere between the lines of a wordless soliloquy
somewhere he and she and the moonlight do not touch
every place of the world is a stage
and I am caught in the costume of this body
still, each time, I lace slippers onto false feet
and, each time, I watch as the curtains draw open
for the next performance
Thehara Ubayawardena is an essayist, poet, and prose writer from New York. They have won several awards for their writing, including recognition from the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards and the John Locke Essay Competition. They are an editor for Scribere Literary Journal and an intern at BreakBread Literacy Project. Besides writing, Thehara loves psychology, Sherlock Holmes, and listening to Linkin Park.