A click rang through my ears as I locked the door.
A bang sounded off around me as I dropped the toilet seat.
All of my senses were blind, yet my taste was heightened.
I sat down and let my feet dangle in open space,
toes much too young to touch the ground.
The walls around me vibrated and a sugar plum anthem pounded in the room next door.
The door rattled with knocks,
dancers hurrying to use the bathroom in between rehearsals.
Bobby pins littered the floor, and a run in my tights that was once the end of the world was now deemed insignificant.

My arms grasped a happy yellow handle, my stomach rumbled with fear.
A forgotten lunch had forced my father to drop off the forbidden red box sitting in my lap.

I tore through the paper, pink nail polish flaking off of my fingers.
I reached inside and pulled out my delicious contraband.

My baby teeth broke through the sesame bun, as my small eyes swelled.
I forced myself to swallow the meat, my throat succumbing to salt from both the pickles and my tears.

Ketchup burned, dripping red with the pain from my soul.

I was the exemplary representation of a young ballerina. A girl struggling to find balance between two notions. The first that you must never starve yourself, and the second that you must never eat unhealthy

A splatter of ketchup fell onto my leg
Once I left that room everyone would know what it was

Everyone would know what I had done

At only seven years old I had already earned my scarlet letter