She wears shame on her shoulders.
But suntime, she has ribbons on her arms. They curl around her muscles, slither across her skin, caress the softest downy hairs that trace her angles and curves. She walks like on air, glides across time and space and captivates all with a nod and a wink.
It's a job. They tie her up, command her, chain her to the earth. "This way, that way." She listens, obeys, does. The satin on her breasts brings nipples to pert attention and she arches her back, stretches her neck, craning it to its full length. Sucks in her concave stomach. Fingertips trace her cheeks, eyes meet glass gaze, one tip of one toe to find balance in a statuesque pose.
She has adolescent limbs and dreams.
They tell her to smile with her eyes and she does. Somehow. They tell her to exaggerate her everything. She doesn't. She doesn't exaggerate what she feels. She exaggerates what she doesn't. She survives. And the snap, pop, click tell her they're happy with that.
She jumps on two-foot heels, a sprite, a faerie until she falls. Collapses, gets back up, brushes away tears under the guise of sweat. Marches, flings, gasps. Priss, princess, pauper.
But he knows and she knows and they all know about the tangle of adult limbs at midnight before the sky grows dark (the sky never grows dark).
And that's where she always is, in the end. Skin burning from too many changes of clothes. Burning from guilt. She's in the foetal position in his basket-woven bed. Her black hair hides pornographic self-perception. He watches her breathe for a moment before he leaves. Comes back with coffee for two, no cream, no sugar.
Adult drinks.