Girl Playwright

Girl sits in a dark room tapping on a keyboard.

I'm changing the world. My words matter. Can't you see that Mother? Of course not. Because it isn't true at all. I'm static. Lost in the space between movement and touch.

I'm your daughter. As useless as you wanted me to be. I'm his child. moody. I'm his sister. Shy. quiet. Their friend. Fat. Ugly. Every one's punchline. I am voice. With an eternity to scream.

Girl sips from a bottle of beer in a dark room.

I'm a poet. The world no longer has any use for us. We bleed and fart all over it as if it doesn't matter. Because it doesn't. It's nothing. This being alive is nothing but a burden.

Girl twirls her hair listening to music.

If only I had the courage. The strength. To finally finish this farce. People like to say living is brave. But people are liars and cowards. It's dying that's hard. Staying alive is as simple as doing nothing.

Girl masturbates. Girl watches television. Crawling backward through time via the fiction. The hatches it has marked in her life. She was then. Now she isn't. A balloon light with helium. Compelled to destruction.

The story tells her. Though she wishes to tell it. The curtain opens. The stage is empty. The voice exhausted.

Girl types in the dark. Saying nothing.