The Failed Actress
by Emily McPhillips
I am a failed actress.
I have failed to attain the love of my on screen lover.
I have managed to act love without loving and you shall not be fooled.
Today I became a failed actress.
I am loved but do not love, and when I love it is wrong, when I love it is a mistake.
I love for the murmur of voices in the night.
I cannot love this man on this shabby bed.
The set designer does not understand love; I cannot love between these sheets, between opulent sheets – love is not so lavish.
Love is discreet and it simmers.
It hangs like beads.
It accompanies.
It holds us by the hand.
Love cannot be directed, it cannot be channelled by a raised voice and stared at and criticised.
I cannot dilute love.
I cannot dip my toe in a hot bath and be satisfied; I want to feel myself sinking, the bubbles up high by my neck.
I want to feel it everywhere and never say it, and never talk of it; I only want to know it.
To be greedy and selfish and know that it is mine and it is secret.
Not well lit and well staged and well cast.
I cannot reel off my love.
It waits for me in the wings,
It waits patiently holding my coat for me, as I slip my arms through the sleeves.
The slavish actress remains on stage.
She, the adaptation of a bold and beautiful idea.
With an idea of happiness, an idea of raucous applause at word perfect delivery.
In the wake of expectance,
An audience waits.
Waits for a forthcoming love.
In a full house tonight.
To pay spectacle to an unmade bed.
To watch it and feel unmoved.
To feel lovelorn and pitied and abashed by human nature at its most confused.
I cannot lend love a favour.
I am fed lines.
I am a prescription of ideals.
And,
I am a failed actress.