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Hate in the Box
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Bloody Ballerina
Bloody ballerina, scrubbing at the stains that won't fade,
Tattered silk of your dress is... an odd shade of gray.
Bodice ripped and torn down, shredded strips of your dress decay,
Spinning round and round, velvet lands on the ground with the delicate steps you take.
Ballerina, those two perfect slits on your wrists are bleeding.
Ballerina, wound you up with an old rusty key in your back.
Do a pretty pirouhette for me,
Slit lips make you smile so pretty.
Satin cinch your waist in tightly.
And I've watched your brillance fade, cheecks dulled and cracked with age.
Old gears still an-i-mate, make you dance with a stilted grace.
Peice by peice has been replaced, porcelain now twigs and string.
Watch the light shine through the lace, worn thin with years of dancing.
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