I made my own scar,
I let my wounds turn into scars.
. . . was it my fault?
"I can do ballet," I said.
So that I can pretend to dance the pain away.
Wearing thick mascara,
wearing a thick eyeliner,
that is a ballerina.
Tears flow down,
while dancing in dawn;
not dawn,
at 12:41 midnight.
Perhaps,
looking and finding,
the right time to be who you are.
Looking at the scar,
I created myself.
Wishing for a star,
that will mend my broken shelf.
Looking at the scar,
asking myself:
will it remain there forever?
What if it remains there forever?
Will there be a fallen star?
Feeling the tears flow down,
so I decided to listen to the music of town,
started to dance to the song—
being myself,
not making a big deal of what is right or wrong,
dancing in the voice of disaster.
There are free-flowing moves,
while dancing
I started to feel it again,
the monotonous voice of later—
the rush of tears.
It is kind of weird,
how you dance freely,
feeling like a princess and a queen in the crown,
dancing the favorite song of town—
yet still feel like crying.
And yes maybe it is,
you dance to prevent yourself from the enormous outburst,
not really big,
more on—
a soft surge of feelings.
The emotional havoc
and the pathos of things—
but this is reality,
not fantasy.
You dance,
because you dance.
You dance,
because you feel sad.
You dance to the music—
because the music is happy and in love,
and you are sad and unloved—
no one knows you can dance.
Because you only dance when you are alone,
in the middle of the night—
to not feel stuck or atone.
Listening to an upbeat song,
dancing,
not to mind how it will last long.
Will it ever last?
And would it be weird,
the town is big,
the lights of the houses in the town are off,
and there is this girl inside her little house,
dancing in the dark with herself—
alone.
One moment,
she is happy dancing—
then one moment,
she is crying while dancing.
