my heart needs a pair of pointe shoes.
without them it will leak blood, and the blood will crust. it will tint my ribs brown, and leave a pattern up my spine.
similar to those pattern's i'd trace against the browned wallpaper of a house so old it could barely hold itself up anymore. i'd wish for you to pick me up, my giggles bouncing off of the aging walls, but your words, i had no idea they were so condescending.
it would be a dream anyway, one of freshly cut grass and checkered napkins. picnics under ripe apple trees, butterflies twirling around our heads. none of these things were ever real. none of these things had ever happened even if i wished so hard for them, begging on my knees for just a moment with you.
a moment would have been bad anyway, if only i had known.
instead, you played with me. you would grab me, your hands so soft and gentle yet the strings tied from yours to mine always itched. those same strings you used to play me like a puppet, who would dance in its very own mirrored ballet studio, looking at its ugly, rotting body that it never belonged in.
others would watch. i think they were just as blind as me. and no matter what i was still desperate. you had finally left them and it was my chance to take you. but you buttered my hands. i slipped. i had no chance even after i tried so hard.
and i just know it's this ugly body's fault.
