#ty sin

There are marble statues and golden girls who wander through the halls of silver, the windows are open and the bitter breeze is strong. Marble girls and golden statues, or is it the other way around, who can tell these days? The pointe shoes are stained with blood, and the girls made of marble dance again. 

“You’re made of marble,” are the words the Madame speaks to you, you nod and smile along. To disobey her means death. 

The boys are made of fire that burns in the summer and the girls are made of the Venus de Milo. You seek the ones who are neither of these but there is no one like that in this place. Just lies and blood and the stench of death. Love is a foreign word to you, the one you know in 32 languages but the emotion still eludes you.

You are now the only girl made of marble and he is the only boy made of fire. The dance floor is slick with blood, and the words he speaks to you are only ever lies. (“it’s ok, it’s ok.) He was wrong, it was never okay. The lies drip like crimson tears from his lips. 

You dream of the Bolshoi school and the night of the fire, the fire roars bigger and bigger with every passing breath. 

You dream of marble dancers weeping blood, the words you scream are in no language you know. He lays his hand in yours and then pulls the trigger, and the scream you hear seems not like your own. 

You dream of marble dancers weeping blood, and boys wearing their halos of burning light. Love taunts you in your dreams, Aphrodite one minute and cold hearted Athena the next.