the pitter-patter of steps across the old wooden floor,
it could burn with a single unlit match, rusted and tired and weary,
yet you sit on it--rather, your stool sits on it. when you were little, it reached higher than your own height, but you are older, and you tower over it even kneeling on the floor. the seat is too small--you are too big. the stool is too small. it’s one of those, right? you’ve outgrown it all, yet you sit here and patch your wounds.

actually, you bandage them.
there are no physical scrapes or stabs or marks. there is just you, bandaging, wrapping the white cloth over your wrists in layers until it covers the skin completely and you can go out on the stage and you can show them what you are made of.
which is bandages. and mismatched love. and sour spit and brittle bones and fierce eyes.
they make the crowd go wild.
you make the crowd go wild.
you continue to bandage.

you sit behind a thick velvet curtain that only opens at the very worst moments.
they are pushed to the right and to the left,
and it is the worst day of your life. he sees you, and it turns into hell.

your time to shine.
you get off of the stool and suddenly the four thin brass legs are much more inviting,
and that uncomfortable red cushion is the most comforting thing in the world.
you get off of the stool and it looks big again against the dimming lights.

when you are on the stage, you wilt and you turn into dust.
you remind yourself that the people are not here for the vagueness--they are here for the show.
it is your time to shine.
you dance and dance, and the whiteness of the bandages blur into beautiful spirals of the bland color, twirling and whipping into shapes.
you die again when you stop spinning because the rush is over.

you will become older like i, you scream, and no one hears you over the music’s roar. you will see it all, then. this is what you make me, this is what i am! this is all i am. this is all i will ever be. why do you want this, me?