Ballerina.

Turn, scrape, turn on your broken, blistering toes, cracking like walnuts in you're damask shoes. You think I can't see that the fractures run deeper that marrow, hairline cracks in your seashell soul. You're just eggshell, brittle, porcelain to the core. No cheaper than that, just junk store chipped china. Mundane. Just a sickly queen on your music box throne. So proud of that tin tiara that's knotted into the thatch of your unruly mane. Bargain ballerina; dance for me, fall for me, break for me. You'll always oblige, twisting out your bent limbs to a stained rendition of Claire De Lune. But the tempos broken like a failing pulse and you don't want to smile for me anymore. So i'll tie my digits around that key and lock you away like some horrible secret. My secret. Mine.