The Endless

Dance. Dance exquisitely, perfectly, like you were made to do this because you were. Dance. Rise on your toes for the pirouette. Perfect. It has to be perfect. Dance. Become as beautiful as a swan. Don’t ever let them see a blemish. Up. Down. Again. Again. Dance. Dance. Dance like your life depends on it because it does. 

Feel the strings pulling at the form of your wrists, your legs, the ends of your dress. Is your body even your own anymore? You can barely feel it moving, a mindless routine of dance, dance, dance. You pull yourself this way and that, eyes catching a glimpse of yourself in the full-length mirror. Tears stream down your face, an almost pathetic pleading expression looks back at you. Immediately, you steel yourself. A swan cannot bear such scars. She cannot show them, cannot reveal the true extent of what it takes to look perfect. No-to be perfect. She is perfect. She has to be. 

The swan forces a smile, willing back tears. Perfect. Exquisitely, beautifully, perfect; you were made to do this. Perfect. Rise on your toes for the pirouette. Perfect, you are perfect. Perfect. You are a beautiful swan. You won’t ever blemish. Up. Down. Again. Again. Perfect. Perfect. Perfect because your life depends on it.