A porcelain ballerina sits upon my chest
She is lovely as the moon, but she only has one leg
Her dress is scorched, and her hands are broken
But Regret turns his cheek at the tin soldier's memory
Her leg punctures through my ribs as she attempts
To dance? To create a melody on my xylophone body
Even she forgets I am human,
as I am laid as a doll to operate on.
She couldn't find him in the box,
Maybe she'll find her soldier boy hidden in my chambers
So she prances about on one foot,
An artistic camouflage to her mundane grief
To make it more than what it is, to make it seem like it matters
But she won't find him here
Yes, I took him— but it was too much
I loved him the way heat went beyond the temperature of ceramics
It shattered with pieces no one could ever dream of finding
With longing for a love it could understand and wanted
And for replies to my letters.
And for awareness to my ache.
Just a response to me.
Between the fireplace and the heated ceramic chambers,
The thin soldier chose a stable fire.
It was better than this uncertain purgatory.
I'm growing accustomed to it
But the ballerina curled up in my heart,
And waited to die.
