Little Dancer, Aged Fourteen

In a wireframe dress on a drooping pedestal She is pretty and pink and easy to digest He calls her sadness art Smooths out all the sharpness of her She is easy to look at He grabs her wrists, nail bitten fingers lacing up satin shoes in the back of a grey room In front of the mirror, on the subway He says, I will make you immortal, don't you want to live forever, aged fourteen? Stay here, before your chest expands inside the corset and the wires dig into your hips The world cannot take this away In these halls she walks silently Clutching a crumpled skirt Laces the fading shoes in front of a mirror She holds his gaze like a rope at the back of the theatre He shakes his head, cases her in amber Toe pointed forward, dust swirling around her Forever waiting to jump