Since I was a little girl,
I dreamed of being a ballerina.
And now look at me:
Caught up in this twisted dance for fools.
I wished for nothing more than to have stage,
And now all I lack is an audience.
Graceful, I am.
So delicate, so perfect.
Sometimes I forget I am not a porcelain ballerina.
It is only when I twirl back to stare at my fans
That my heart clenches at the sight of empty velvet chairs.
It is only when the curtain falls with a silent flutter,
That I let myself collapse to the stage and cry.
My fingers clenching dried rose petals,
I melt into the floor and let the violins swallow me.
Quiet, I am.
So fragile, so perfect.
Sometimes I forget I am not the lie I wove myself to be.