What is it?
I want to scream. In a room with no door, a space filled with mirrors, I want to take a bat to it all. Make it all star dust glistening at my feet. And I want to scream as I do it. But alas, I'm merely wind up ballerina. Forever dancing to the same music, constrained to the edges of my box. Red's not the color. Or black. It's all of them in one. Hurling paint at a canvas until your sweating and panting. Something's bubbling, boiling, burning. I can feel it swelling in my throat. My chest. My heart. What is it? What is it? what is it? Scream. That's all I want to do. Mirrors. Bat. Stardust.