we were pirouette children,
tip toeing over cracks on the side walk,
spinning to a muted algorithm whose rhythm boomed within our heads.
no one sees the solo sobbing sessions—
all the episodes of decomposition,
of bones collapsing on top of one another.
no one hears the constant chatter of voices raging in between our ears—
the noise that could not be shut off with the flicking of a switch or the banging contact of skull to table.
despite the top-of-the-class remarks,
we could not figure out how to digest our lives.
we could not grow accustom to the
bubbling cauldron that stewed within us
whenever we were hit with the slightest taste of failure
we found ourselves wobbling on a tightrope,
attempting to balance the burden of the person that we were and the person that we were supposed to be
on our shoulders.
despite our efforts to present ourselves as lions,
at the end of the day
we knew deep in our hearts that we were still lambs.
17 18
Pirouette Children
Anonymous