Cocoon

I had to play dead for a moment, fearing the end that comes with teen-age. Would I really die here? Juliet wasn’t actually dead yet, anyway. Only asleep, from the potion, an escape from girlhood. Hair the length of her life, uncut, curled and delicate at the ends. Trying to grow up too fast. Vigorous—a trait I lacked, slow growing, and blonde at my shoulders. A blistering red prison.
I lay stiff on a platform made to be a bed, pillow stuffed, no sheet. I had a pounding in my chest and only dark behind my eyes. Lights dimming on the outer layer, red blending into blue. Still and wet and rippling. The crowd a curious tiptoe closer. Silent and vast beyond that brimming light.
I unstitched the layers and realised I dreaded centre stage—trimmed, hemmed, lathered—for I was Juliet but she was not so like me. A couplet unravelling at the seams.
Merge emerge.
I was myself then Juliet awoke to find her lover dead. I was Juliet and the boy took the poison and there: the knife to make a death. Juliet gone then, I was becoming. A prosperous butterfly. Me. Bright and blue.
Emerge emerge.
We would die that windy evening stage lights pink, white nightie and blue skirt a happy dagger piercing mine removing the red that no longer belonged inside me. The dagger was the right choice, I commend her for that. A knife to cut the young flesh right out of a teen.
I wanted the dagger.
I wanted to carve.
I wanted to be colourful.
I wanted to eat up words in search of a character to play.
But Juliet didn’t resonate with me, and now I’m older.