(Based on a painting by Mark Ryden) Wind her up. Make her feel like she is nothing but a trophy that stands upon your mantle. That’s it. Now trample on her feathers, rip the tulle of her tutu, and make her fall weak with eyes tired until she remembers the motions, until she remembers the steps; until she lives, eats, and breathes the name of dance. Wind her up.
That’s it. Now treat her like the rag doll that she is and train her to do tricks. Reward her with sugar when she is good, and whip her with chains when she is bad. Wind her up. That’s it. Now pull her by her sun- flowered thorns and leave her barren without roots. That’s it. Now make her scream. Make her feel the burn in her brittle bones. Make her sweat. Make her want what you want. Make her stand on her wooden ballet shoes repetitiously until her toes bleed in red. Wind her up. That’s it. Make her say pretty little things. Make her talk of pink pearls and red ribbons because she was born to do this. She was born to dance. She was born with diamonds gently pressed to the palms of her hands. So, what are you waiting for? Wind her up. Make other girls envy her like she is a dream. You know you want to, go on. Make her do a plié, a pirouette, and a curtsy. Come on make her body sing to the rhythm of your stone cold heart. Comments are closed.
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