Tiptoeing around it, waiting in the wings
The shell of a dancer stands quietly empty
A self gone to make room for syllables that stung
This is the price you pay for loss of control.
Hurtful words echo through her.
The wait should be ending now.
The guitar is starting, thrumming in her heart.
A beat, a breath, now catch!
Footsteps fading softly, rushing into place.
Marionette strings pulling her along, hiding the emotion.
She is a prisoner to the rhythm, to the set status quo.
A girl trapped in being alone.
The dancer screaming silently.
Keeping quiet is hard.
A rock n’ roll sonata, the soundtrack to her sorrow.
“Every line is about who I don’t wanna write about anymore.”
The sardonic pull of a smile makes her different than the rest,
the irony of the words pulling her under.
Deeper she dives until the pressure is too much.
She cracks from the center.
Fissures open through her exposing her interior.
Onstage, an exhibit for anyone to see.
She thinks the chasms too deep to mend,
A stumble, a beat lost never to be found again.
So away from the rest she leaps
away from the rest she soars.
Footsteps growing louder
Swollen hurt encompassing all,
her wounds driving her along.
The sound is peaking.
Her movement matching tempo,
the pain providing strength.
The melody crescendos with an outburst to match hers.
The other dancers begin to follow along,
Her heart is an exhibit that makes the audience know.
No longer a march to end alone.
This is the price you pay for loss of control.
Every sentence in italics is a lyric from “Okay, I Believe You (But My Tommy Gun Don’t)” by Brand New.