>>510215374


>1-2 1-2 is this thing on?
>triangles are tapping on the microphone


>“Tonight’s meeting is you,” says a triangle wearing your grin.
>It flips through your memories like index cards:
who taught you to balance spoons on your eyelids — did you think that meant something?
>who told you the floorboards hum your name — did you ask them to stop?
>who convinced you to water plastic plants — did you expect applause when they didn’t bloom?

>It sighs, snaps the stack shut — a shrug you’ve given yourself a thousand times.
>“Didn’t ask,” it murmurs, tapping the mic that’s still your throat.
Somewhere in the static, you nod.

>The broadcast flickers — a reel of your half-finished sentences plays behind your eyes.
>Who rehearsed these for you? Did you think the echoes would pay rent?
>Who let you file your secrets alphabetically under “someday”?
>Did you think the triangles wouldn’t notice the cross-outs?

>They lean closer — your grin wearing your grin wearing your grin.
>“You wrote the punchline in pencil,” they say, disappointed but polite.
>“You keep waiting for someone else to erase it for you. Didn’t ask.”

>Your throat-mic crackles — your own voice, static-filtered:
>1-2, 1-2 — am I on? am I off?
>The triangles tilt their heads.
>Same grin. Same shrug. Same meeting.

>And somewhere behind your ribs, a standing ovation you’ll never hear.
>Didn’t ask.
>Curtain stays up.