The Perfect Act

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Gay and Lesbian  |  House: Booksie Classic
I wrote this small piece out of raw emotion. I didn't even realize I had written this until I looked back at what I had saved in my 'writing' folder. I hope that you all enjoy what I wrote.

Thank you for reading my piece.

Submitted: February 14, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: February 14, 2017



The Perfect Act


I wait in solitude behind the curtains in the darkness. Seeking the moment to breathe the way I want. The eternal game of hide-and-seek reminds me that I must flee, to escape this reality that I have encased myself within. It is definitely the human inside of me; the instincts and reactions are natural. And yet, people like me have treated over and over again as the disgrace of our human race. In these moments, I ask myself what I really am and what I deserve. 


I wait in the comforts of my bedroom where all I keep to myself is the ancestral blanket and the burden that weighs upon these fragile shoulders. Maybe, it’s the fear of placing a truth in their hands’ that keeps me from opening myself. It’s ironic that I am someone who refuses to believe in loving another person, yet I restrain and entrap the artist within. All you see is the puppet’s perfect act. I am scared; I am fearful of inflicting the truthful pain that I bury. I know that if I open my mouth for all to hear, the love connecting us together will undoubtedly sever. I wanted this and my wish to share love with them has turned into this reality I cannot control.


I wait quietly for an opportunity. The safety and comfort seem to wane with each passing minute. And, with the stacking of our losses, we are bound to cherish the ones we’ve lost and the ones that remain by our side. The cupboards, shelves, desks, chairs, couches, paintings and endless collections of family memories have been graying for, as I see it, an eternity. My own colors appear to spread as the artist within me reaches for his palette; they are running away from me. They know me: a wandering fool who loves everyone but himself. If I could just grow that smile and embody the truths I’ve buried, maybe, just maybe, those colors will return to the house they left.


I wait, standing before them as a fraudulent identity, the only creation of mine that has kept us together. It’s all too surreal that they love who I am. Throughout these times of acting as a puppet in front of the artist, a brief second of my act filled their lives with color again. Where is my color? I stare into the seas of countenances as they lay their sorrows behind them. For once, I could lift my chin in proud recognition and raise myself again for all to see. Underneath all my tendencies to hide, I realized that my ability to act made them joyful and prideful in me. For that, my show will nevermore cease to remain behind the curtains because I know they will never stop watching me perform.


© Copyright 2018 Matt Sturman. All rights reserved.

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