Forced to hang on a pedestal. Shimmering. Beautiful. Broken into a million pieces, yet its shattered edges are still glistening brightly. Just for you.
She’s shining in her tallest tiptoes. In her highest heels. Forced to perform on the dance floor, projecting her inner light. Jagged and in pieces, but it’s still viewed as the long thing she is good for. Spinning and spinning and spinning. Round and round, The cycle goes on. Just for you.
People gasp and marvel at the way she dazzles. Captivated. They do not see the cracks carving their way on her surface. Oblivious. They do not hear her silent cries as she twirls. Intoxicated. Dancing to their own tunes, their laughs echo through the walls. Still, she will fake a grin as if she’s winning. Detached. Just for you.
If you lean in closer, which no one ever does, you see yourself in her. Little tiny pieces of you. The way she arranges herself so meticulously from her shattered pieces. Organised yet chaotic, as the crowd chants for more. More light, more beauty, more perfection. More. A perfect performer. Just for you.
But when the lights dim, and the music sleeps. When the clock strikes twelve and the people leave. She is left alone. Suspended and still. Somehow, still on that pedestal. Still trying to get them to look at her. No matter her exhaustion. No matter her unwillingness.