She's all shine and light. As she takes the first step on the tightrope, the spotlight hits her and the gems in her clothes make the crowd shiver with wonder. Is that what it feels like, to feel it all?
She opens the cupboard door, fully aware of the aimlessness of the move. At this moment nothing is certain. It can feel monumental if she allows it. Instead she reaches for the pepper.
She's now fully on the rope. The tension from trying to keep her balance courses through her like electric current. Her hands spread, to keep from falling. But she must make it look effortless.
She shakes the bottle and the flakes fall on her hair. Black to blonde. It burns.
She's a butterfly. Her arms are wings. The glitter on her cheeks, sparkles. No eyes in the crowd can be ripped off of her.
She's enveloped by artificial light. There is the familiar low hum of the motor, playing its tune. She's hungry now. She grabs everything she can find in the fridge but cannot sate her hunger fast enough. She pours it on her, rubs it on her but it's still not enough.
She's in the middle of the rope now. In the middle of the stage. This is the tricky part.
She needs to equalize. She takes the glass bottle from the top shelf and lets the milk wash it all away.
She's shaking. The highrope does not forgive. The glitter in her cheeks is split in two. The eyes of the crowd either refuse to look or look on, frozen, with morbid curiosity.
She knows the answer that will quench her. The virgin oil burns faster. She pours and lights the match.
She's free-falling now. She always knew there's no safety out on a skywalk.
