Coffee Mugs and Tutus

Do you know how it is to always wake up next to yourself. No matter how much the night before took me away, there I am again.

Pressing the coffee to my lips. Swallowing life in raw, sugar-free doses. The employee. The child. The sister.

Clay ballerina with tights made of lead. Up on my toes once more to dance for them. Gathering shadows from all across the stage to collect for when the curtain closes.

It's the daylight that cuts me open. Let her bleed out from underneath my skin. But she or I. Which of us is the prison. That is a distinction I've yet to make.