I love watching her move. Every bend and curve of her pale supple body brings a sad smile to my face. Sometimes I forget that she used to be a girl, maybe even a woman, with hopes and dreams of success, maybe even happiness. Long ago I stripped my puppet of her autonomy. She no longer speaks, and I'm not sure that she remembers how. I don't care if she remembers, I'm just thrilled to see her plastered smile and her silent hollow stare. I come home to her soulless shell, and I watch her lithe figure enchanting my presence like my personal marionette doll.
She used to have dreams of becoming a dancer. I don't remember what happened to her fantasy, but it is no longer relevant. She now exists as my private ballerina, always mid-performance, always just for me. When I walk in the door, she recognizes her cue. She practices and demonstates her favorite positions for me when I walk through the threshold. Bending her body, twisting her torso, her malleable little frame folding before me until I smile. When my sweet girl sees me smile, her blank stare briefly flickers what she once knew as joy. That brief flash of her forlorn dreams vanishes as quickly as it appeared, and her lifeless company returns to my omnipotence.
She is my pet. She is a marionette ballerina that I keep caged in my spare bedroom. I let her out of her cage when I am away, so she can wander aimlessly throughout my house. Sometimes she tries to read books, but when she opens them, all she sees are blank white pages, no words. The only way she occupies her trapped thoughts is by dancing. Meticulously rehearsing every move of her beautiful body, waiting for me to come home and hoping that maybe she will make me smile.
I love watching her move for me. She waits eagerly for my return, desperate to show me her new contortions. I seldom smile for her. When I do, my smile is not one of pride or joy. It is a smile of shame and pity. Watching her delicate figure bend and twist for my pleasure makes me feel sorry for her. She dances to make me happy, and all of her efforts only cause me more pain. I designed this creature whose sole being is devoted to my cruel amusement, and she still will never be good enough. She knows that she is my perfect pet, and she knows that I will never love her. Still, she tries her best to make me happy day after day. When her heartfelt efforts bring me a fleetingly sorrowful smile, she becomes less and less human. Watching her starve while I strip away her humanity is the only thing that brings me joy. My sweet ballerina only wants to bring me joy, and she sacrifices her soul to me day after day just hoping that someday she will be enough.
She will never be enough. My sweet pet will forever retain traces of her humanity. I see her flashing memories of her unbridled joy from when she used to be a dancer. As long as she still remembers happiness, I will never love her. But she loves me, and she will do anything to witness my happiness. She is my sweet girl, but she will never learn. She practices and repeats her ballet for me every single day, and she becomes less human and more tragic with each private show. Maybe someday she will understand that there is no escape. There is no escape from her pain, and she can't save me from mine.
She brings me no joy, and I keep her locked in her cage. Her efforts to make me happy bring momentary solace from her confined solitude, but seeing her joy brings me pain. And seeing my pain brings her sorrow. As long as I can still see glimpses of my ballerina's desperate remains of her tortured humanity, then I will never love her. I tell her this every night before bed. I tell her that no one will ever love her, and then I slam her cage shut for just one more night.
Dedicated to my favorite freak
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