They wheeled me into the ballroom at eight,
draped in a gown that smelled like fate.
The chandeliers swung like nooses in time,
as the mannequins bowed in a crooked line.
Their joints creaked soft as the violins wailed,
wearing my face, wide-eyed and pale.
Plastic teeth in painted grins,
said, “Welcome home, let the dance begin.”
At the Mannequin Ballroom, no one blinks,
we toast with formaldehyde and broken drinks.
We twirl, we laugh, we snap our wrists,
in a tuxedo made of therapists’ lists.
The bride wore bandages, soaked in red,
the groom had no arms and a styrofoam head.
I offered a smile, they pinned to my cheek,
and stitched my silence so I couldn’t speak.
The mirrors were guests–they clapped on cue,
reflected a version that wasn’t quite you.
I danced with myself till my ankles bled,
they crowned me king of the almost-dead.
A girl made of wires offered her hand,
said, “Sane is a word you won’t understand.”
We spun till my stitches split at the seams,
and she whispered, “We’re all someone’s dreams.”
Now I’m a fixture on the center floor,
tied in a pose of rehearsed outrage.
They dust me daily, repaint my grin,
and wind up my spine so I’ll dance again.