My legs are stiff but I'm
Not dead

My rigor mortis comes from the standards
You hold me to and
Tie my feet
With

You bind me in satin ribbon and
Point my toes
So that they're elegantly deformed
In the name of
Perfection
And given a beautiful dance to perform
In apology

Well all these pirouettes have stolen
My ability to stand
Still

As your greedy, strong hands pull the strings
Of my corset tighter
Still

And my waist has grown smaller with
My individuality
But you have the nerve to put me on a diet
Of gluttonous anxiety
That loves the performance but hates the
Choreography

And if you're not a puppet I'm not
Your Pinocchio,
Yet my nose grows longer and my
Waist wider

And the soles of my fit hit the ground in a passionate embrace
Of long-lost
Lovers,
My first truth told in nearly two decades

I'm done with your perfectionism
And constructive
Criticism.