Correctional Choreography poem

It’s a place I feel off— not wedded to anything. Truculent. I think in riddles and answer in metaphors. I dance on my tiptoes— an adagio of agony. Passion pirouettes out of sight. Tethered. Bound by grief. Temptation forgotten, tempered. It no longer exists. It was a pas de deux, now it’s just a deuce— a petulant penitent, an unwanted pardon. The dancer stirs. The pulse quickens to a tango. Recalcitrant and longing. Unable to follow the white line unless it’s condemned. So the path ahead is delusional— felt, not seen. When will the blocks of life build up and make me feel safe? I feel like I’m in a correctional facility. I am my own door. I am my own jailor. I realise I have the key. I bury it under the pile of shame in the corner.