his spine hurt.
her legs were sore.
a deep violet, covered in paint, his nails traveled down, down, down, wrapping around the hoop.
a pale white, wrapped in bandages and tape, her fingers traveled down, down, down, readjusting the silk shoe.
slowly, hesitantly, he twisted himself backwards, in such a way that it pained the audience to simply look at the way his spine contorted -
slowly, hesitantly, she rose, standing en pointe, in such a way that her hands trembled and her back ached -
and yet, he continued his performance, although his hands bled and his skin broke at the slightest movement, for them.
and yet, she continued to dance, although her ankles were twisted in such an unnatural way, her fingers cricked in a permanent position that screamed elegance.
for them.
elegance.
for the audience, of course - he had to do this. he had to contort his body - he had to starve himself, for the audience. to appear presentable. to appear beautiful.
elegance, of course - she absolutely had to radiate elegance. she had to break her legs, over and over and over and over, she had to dance and hold her body in such a way that there was never a day without pain. to radiate elegance. to appear presentable.
every day, it was the same.
"how I regret taking this deal," thought the aerialist.
"how I regret deciding to dance," thought the ballerina.
and how detached he appeared. and how dead his eyes looked, as he spun - as he twirled, as he killed himself, slowly, for the audience's amusement. was that blood or paint?
and how she dissociated. and how glassy her gaze was, and how emotionless her face appeared, as she defied gravity - as she twirled, as she killed herself, slowly, for the sake of elegance. was that her skin or the silk ribbons?
and how dearly they regretted their choices.
and how near they were to death.
"tell me, does this amuse you?"
"tell me, does this entertain you?"
