As I walk into my room, a burning sensation grows between my thighs. Skin chafes against skin, feeding the fire of pain and irritation. Until now, I couldn’t acknowledge the rashes growing redder with every step. I peel off my leotard, the sweat on my skin clinging to the thick fabric. When I struggle to pull my legs out, I see the rips in my new tights, I see my mother’s money thrown out the window.

I let my duffel bag slip from my fingers. The old ballet slippers and almost gone deodorant spill onto the floor. My figure, clad in a tight bra and underwear, stands before the mirror, reminding me of my yellowed walls and stained matress. I’m shown for the hundreth time the dead cockroach hiding in the corner. Wind billows from the open window and wraps around my body in a blanket of chill before teasing my wispy hair. For a fraction of a second, I don’t see the door. For a frightening moment, leaping out my window to my death was my only path free. When my eyes meet the rotting, wooden threshold, I sigh with relief.

A soft melody pulls me further from my rattling mindset. I see a small, tiny ballerina spinning atop of the jewelry box on my desk. Her performances are short and repetitive, but the dancer has never once faltered. Neither has her smile or her pirouette. Her flamingo pink tutu and blush tights are as new as the day I got her five years ago. Stress and worry don’t pull down her delicate features.

I wish for her be in my mirror instead.

But on the music box she will remain forevermore.