The rotting, wooden walls stare at me, threateningly closing in. The box is my cage; my springs are my chains. I am suffocated by the looming imprisonment of the ceiling above me, only to be opened when an eager, childlike face appears above me. They watch me spin dizzyingly in circles, the metal structures instructing me into a forced performance of agony. My cries are of no use, when my body is trapped in an eternal pirouette. A ballerina doesn’t cry, for this is how I was designed.