masterpiece.
Next comes my iPod. With the recordings I have stitched together myself. Taken from countless
years of practice sessions. The videos that were intended to teach me where my weaknesses lay.
Now I use them for something else. I use them to set myself on fire.
My clothes come off next. Until only a pair of hot-pants and a sports bra remain. The music begins
to play first. Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake. And then my father’s voice.
I douse myself and the canvas beneath me in colored chalk and paint. And then I light myself on
fire. Moving. Feeling. Self-destructing and resurrecting all in time to the beat of his voice.
Weak.
Pathetic.
Broken.
Disgrace.
Toil, bleed, collapse, repeat.
Again.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Perfection is not a gift.
Five. Six. Seven. Eight.
It is forged through the endless repayment of your blood, sweat, and tears.
Repeat.
Fracture is a sign of weakness.
Snap.
I will accept nothing less than excellence.
Snap.
Sugar has no place in your mouth or on your thighs.
Snap.
Toil, bleed, collapse, repeat.
Toil, bleed, collapse, repeat.
The words move through me. Forging my creation. The fusion of art and movement. The thing that
makes me feel free. The place I channel all of my hatred for him. For his expectations.
And for myself.