Her porcelain figure twirled in elegant shapes,

A lullaby snaking through her limbs, laced with a silent threat.

She twists into more delicate shapes portraying some unknown heroine.

Shiny trinkets blink at her like royal delegates watching her from their velvet balconies.

Her pink leotard, tutu and ballet shoes had faded with age,

Dust had gathered not just on them but on her,

But her snowy face remained unchanged,

Her face set in a stony mask of composure, her eyes still twinkling.

The light slowly fading from the theatre she had settled in,

The soft music growing lethargic as the darkness germinated.

She slowed to stop as the darkness regained control with a deafening slam.

Her body lay on the stage, lifeless.

She had learnt long ago that it was easier not to scream and cry.

She learnt to deal with the pain as her right foot was clamped to a velvet covered plate.

It told when to stand and when to move and when she was safe enough to give a little whimper when no one was listening.

She was trapped in a box, waiting for the lullaby to resume the same dance she always performed to her faceless audience.

Silently willing the day where she would set outside her wooden coffin to the world outside, to see if it was really as cruel as it had seemed when the lid had slammed shut.