Strings attached to the promise of parallel.
Ribbons among ribbons among limp arms and legs.
Even a master in the art of puppetry can’t control their own movements.
Step by step, we get closer to the wall.
Closer to the glass window that separates us from a conscienceless world.
A simple lift of the leg, followed by a twirl, followed by a leap.
These are my movements.
This is the height of my leg lift, the velocity of my twirl, and the length of my leap.
You can’t control how flexible I am.
You can’t control how talented I am.
You can’t control the time I go to bed, or the food I put in my mouth.
You can’t control the amount of makeup I put on my face,
Or the people I hang out with,
Or the boys I decide to date.
You can’t control me.
No sabes mi vida.