Her demons make her a god.
A god elevated to a stage,
Not a pedestal.
Watched, not watching.
What will her tornado rage throw next?
Perhaps a chair, perhaps a cup.
What would make the wreckage of innocent objects more artistic?
Or maybe she will collapse like a sinkhole.
Onto the pavement or unto herself?
Either way, it must be done with the right balance of grace and despair.
A testament to the limits of human emotions, maybe even transcending those limits!
Tragic, but oh so enchanting!
She thrives off such praise.
There is good even in these demons,
But when the lights dim,
When she realizes there is no audience,
She claws at her skin,
Etching blue ink onto her limbs,
Those alabaster pages.
All a show, all a show.
Who is she performing for?
Contact Ericka Shin at [email protected].