Текст песни
They snapped my spine into fifth position
before I ever learned how to hate properly
Four years old, ribs like porcelain debt
Mama said “arabesque or we don’t eat”
I pissed blood in pink tights at seven
They called it “beautiful dedication”
Father jerked off to the sound of my metatarsals cracking
while he filmed another “perfect line”
No cartoons, no skinned knees, no hiding under tables
Only mirrors. Endless. Judgmental. Hungry.
I dance on the graves of the girl I was never allowed to be
Each pirouette — one more middle finger to the womb that rented me
My pussy bleeds roses for the audience
but the thorns stay inside, darling, they stay inside
I fuck conductors in dressing rooms
so they’ll write my name bigger on the poster
Their come tastes like rosin and broken promises
I swallow both and smile for the curtain call
At night I carve new bunions with a nail file
just to feel something that isn’t choreography
The scars on my hips spell “mama was proud”
in the handwriting of a thirteen-year-old addict
I want to vomit tutus onto their laps
white tulle soaked in bile and period blood
I want the front row to choke on the smell
of everything they paid to romanticize
I dance on the graves of the childhood they murdered
Every fouetté is a gunshot into the mirror
Look at me, mummy. Look how prettily I rot.
Thirty-two fouettés. Thirty-two lies
Thirty-two years of someone else’s fucking dream
Now applaud
Louder
I still can’t hear that I’m allowed to stop
…one more season
then I’ll burn the pointe shoes
with the body still inside them
