There’s a ballerina on the stage,
bleeding out through the whites of her costume—
the faces on the curtains are laughing—
a mirror of the world watching—
the spectacle of reds will not be washed away—
once tainted, feathers cannot be wings again.
all that’s left is rotten flesh—
once beautiful enough to make a man go insane.

I dream of dying like a ballerina—
my decay is a masterpiece—
born with broken wings, I crave a swan’s flesh—
between my teeth, I **** the remaining beauty.
my bones will be jewellery— desired—
We must **** the oysters to get the pearls.

Do not call me by that nickname,
I cannot be yours in the way you want me to—
I must give my body to the stage—
my soul belongs to the audience—
my blood will paint a dead ballerina—
hang it high above your bed,
I will haunt your dreams like you did mine.