I perform on the ice. Chaotic spins, to symbolise being out of control.
Hey, look at me! I’m a spinning cliché.
My breakdowns are a spectator sport for you and I crave your attention always

It’s bitingly cold: I swear I can feel it behind the backs of my eyes.
I keep my movie-star-lipstick smile on, because if I don’t, I risk you leaving!
You don’t want to see what happens when the worst fear of a borderline plays out. 

When I sit alone on the edge of the rink, your chair is empty, a painful shorthand.
Breathing white fog and scrunching my blistered toes
I smile wanly at the attendant who is resurfacing the ice with a tired old machine. 

The smile lets him know I am just taking a moment to rest!
As he frowns, concerned, at the spattered red art, tracing where I have been
What I really mean: don’t fucking touch that ice. I paid for this rink with my blood.