red [complete]

one || eight-count

it's been how many?

years.

eyes rake over their figures,

cold and unforgiving

as usual, she watches,

their movements must be,

will be

perfect.

she counts.

six,

seven,

eight,

they dance.

six,

seven,

eight,

the pain in their feet,

bleeding into perfect arches.

six,

seven,

eight,

she counts.

they land in perfect fifths,

bodies primed in fear,

scattering like snow

to the side of the room,

as she counts again.