There’s a screen between us, opaque; it filters our lives.
What you see is who I want to be and what I see is what
Now, you are the romantic; a tragic figure fights for his
rights, an amusement for the upper class.
I dance on the table, flushed with shame, for this I will
win the crown.
I am little Miss America lost on her stroll down the aisle.
I’m your little darling who forgot to look harmless.
(c) Rob Goldstein 2016-2017