Why do you pull my spine in every which way and then hit me on old walls and hardwood floors to warm me up? I was made by a little old woman in her little old house, filled with nothing but love. I was tossed in a pile with the rest of the homemade shoes, and then sent away, alone, and scared. One day, you picked me up, and took me to the studio we all dreamed of. But no one told me, no one warned me, about the hours and hours of pain and torture you would put me through. The days that turn into weeks that turn into months of being hit and smashed against the walls and then hit and smashed against the Marley floor. But finally, the week arrives. Show week. I watch you put on a smiling face, even though we both know you're hurting. And so am I. But we both will persevere, and when the first steps are taken onto the warn down, freshly cleaned stage, all the months of pain and torture suddenly turn into a beautiful masterpiece. The glory of the 3 short minutes on stage will last a lifetime. And now I know, I will never see that stage again, and I will never see the floors of the studio again, for I am old and worn out. I have lived my life. As I reach the back of your coat closet in her apartment, I can hear you call my birthplace once again to see if there are any pairs of pointe shoes in your size.