self para, mika song. starting her career as a burlesque dancer, mika song quickly took off in popularity under the stage name “songbird.” her gentle & subtle movements amoured the crowd as she brought them into her romantic outlook of the world. thousands would kill to see the thoughts behind her pretty face as she would sway across the stage.
hunger lingers in their gaze ; adrenaline carrying her frame through the neon spotlights that cast shadows upon her muse below. the excitement his character brings her revolts her ; the sheer admiration & lust for her carefully choreographed movements drove her insane. degraded to an empty shell of nothing but beauty and desire, taught the importance of a visual would win you diamonds and gold - it deeply excited her.
drenched in decorated silver, the lavish garment that warmed to her body like a familiar hug, it brought the attention of many - it seemed that every single head turned par her own. their adoration that kindled her sweet deception, there was no malice - it was simply survival. music carried her, working against her in every way. her brain on autopilot, her heart - filled with nothing but hate. hate. hate. a place she could not reach, she could no longer feel. distorted imagery creating a reality deep within her she could call home - somewhere safe and loving she could place herself when her gloomy heart began to heal.
“mika” she called it. this thing, this attempt, this person. she loved attention, she loved validation - her dancing, her presence, her character. the artist installation she stood by and watched as passers by gave their praise, of course it was fickle, the feeling stayed for a moment - it wouldn’t stay with her. the validation she would seek ongoing; “nothing is permanent.” is what she would call it. including herself. mika song would only last until she found something that suited her better, maybe the name would remain, but the origins would always twist and change.
so beneath her he sat. with each note, each exchange of currency- the facade would drip a little more, the bloody tangled mess slowly being revealed. he wanted to know her, they all want to know who she is. why she is. the disconnect from reality they all craved, maybe they envied her. little miss perfect who had the world at her finger tips, seemingly without revealing nothing at all. her soul as sweet as blood red jam, her sophistication, she understands them. the way her body moves, the way she gives them every little thing they want but nothing at all. her illusion - it fuels her. she loves it. mika loves it.
the fearful little girl who sat deep inside her prison, she would cry ; it’s almost silent, drowned out by laughter & song. sat within her was a desperation, something that couldn’t be fulfilled by kind words spoken by older or fickle admiration, something yearned to be heard, not just known. a void not spoken of as it sat far from the notion of money or glory. the embrace she wanted vs the embrace she needed - a hug for alys. a kiss for alys. a gentle hand reminding her that even at the worst of times, it was okay to not be mika. it was okay to be more than body & song. it was okay to feel. the emotions are scary ; like laughter in a woodland deep into the night. but the tender embrace of her inner child was second to the ignorance and high.
so she continues, the routine drawing to a close as the audience applauds. eyes that sparkle but carry nothing but dejection finish their fantasy with a wink. as the curtain draws close, she smiles to herself. we did well.
