Status: Updating Daily
A Fabric Slipper is Better Than Glass
Ribbon
I looked at myself in the full length mirror. The black Leotard and tutu standing out against my pale skin. My pale blonde hair was pulled up in a tight ballerina bun. My nails, fingers and toes, where painted a shinny, metallic purple. My green eyes were rimmed with glittery pink powder, and my lips had a thick layer of lip gloss. My feet held the soft black slippers, with the ribbons left untied. And my black tights covered the skin of my legs.
The look of myself made me sick. The only thing I liked was that the color of my outfit was black. If I had my way, I would be in skinny jeans, and high tops. The pink eye shadow black, and the lip gloss Chap Stick. I wouldn’t mind my nail polish being darker either.
The only thing of my outfit that is me, is that my slippers weren’t tied up. I never tie them up and that earned me the name Ribbon. A name mom makes me sign my school papers as, and enrolls me into school under. All my ‘friends’ call me that, along with strangers and dance instructors.
My parents them self don’t remember my birth-given name because I haven’t heard it since I was seven. That was when my father took up drinking, and mother took up being the soccer mom of ballet. That is also when I had to become the perfect princess of politeness. I was enrolled into a private school, and everything was replaced by pink shirts and frilly skirts.
“Ribbon! Get your slutty ass down here!” I heard dad yell from downstairs.
I sighed, before leaving to go downstairs. It was the final performance of the nutcracker, and mom managed to keep dad sober. So, he was just the aggressive bastard mom married without alcohol.
When I got downstairs, mom ushered us into the car, with the jillion ‘My daughters a Dancer’ stickers on it. This was routine for me, and so were the purple bruises hidden under the black tights. I was afraid the new cut on my upper thigh would open in the middle of the performance. Or I couldn’t do all the bends because of the bruise on my stomach.
But as mother would always say: “Your Brought It On Yourself.”
The look of myself made me sick. The only thing I liked was that the color of my outfit was black. If I had my way, I would be in skinny jeans, and high tops. The pink eye shadow black, and the lip gloss Chap Stick. I wouldn’t mind my nail polish being darker either.
The only thing of my outfit that is me, is that my slippers weren’t tied up. I never tie them up and that earned me the name Ribbon. A name mom makes me sign my school papers as, and enrolls me into school under. All my ‘friends’ call me that, along with strangers and dance instructors.
My parents them self don’t remember my birth-given name because I haven’t heard it since I was seven. That was when my father took up drinking, and mother took up being the soccer mom of ballet. That is also when I had to become the perfect princess of politeness. I was enrolled into a private school, and everything was replaced by pink shirts and frilly skirts.
“Ribbon! Get your slutty ass down here!” I heard dad yell from downstairs.
I sighed, before leaving to go downstairs. It was the final performance of the nutcracker, and mom managed to keep dad sober. So, he was just the aggressive bastard mom married without alcohol.
When I got downstairs, mom ushered us into the car, with the jillion ‘My daughters a Dancer’ stickers on it. This was routine for me, and so were the purple bruises hidden under the black tights. I was afraid the new cut on my upper thigh would open in the middle of the performance. Or I couldn’t do all the bends because of the bruise on my stomach.
But as mother would always say: “Your Brought It On Yourself.”