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.