I found him in the big city.
I searched through hundreds of teachers and found one.
When I entered his class I felt unworthy, he was willing to teach me a selection.
Learn your lines, pick your props, mind your cues, beat yourself each time you take the stage.
I wandered in like a lost doll with a fragmented mind.
I remember, "You have to believe."
I think that was the core understanding I took away, so far away.
If you don't believe in your character's existence, if you don't step inside her, who are you but a cheap imitation?
The classmates guided every week, kept coming back.
So quick to take offense at the wrong choices.
I learned to listen closely to his voice.
The trademark use of phrases that confuse and befuddle.
Listeners learn to wait.
Before making assumptions.
Did I say he's a hopeful romantic?
How many pages can you memorize?
He has committed a full library to memory.
I am a beginner, he's a pro.
Acting like I know, when I don't.
Makes me challenging.
Permanently contrite, simple, smart, pretty, could be how he likes the female population to be.
Erroneous maybe, intriguing still.
I wandered away so many times.
But in the end he waived my bill.
I let him down.
See I still feel badly.
Wished I could have repaid his kindness with hard work.
Instead I lost myself in the dark labyrinths.
I went into the House of Mirrors.
And came out pregnant.
Pregnant with a toxic love.
Despite the teacher's lessons and advice.
Always listen, listen to your professor.
I hear him speaking now.
From acting teacher to life teacher, it works both ways.
Impart with care, they listen to us, and we are barely here.
Did you respond to my heart?
Or what, I don't know.
For me I had my crush.
Silence, the teacher thumbs pages into the night.
I wonder if he knows what the playwright has done.
Covers and dedications, dreams I never thought or knew.
And I'm not who I was.
Is the teacher the same?