That's what you told me, that I could be brilliant.
That I could be brilliant if I didn't spend so much time
Being silly. I wanted to ask what you meant.
What do you mean, being silly? Would you call it silly
That I have been working harder than ever before,
So that I could be brilliant? You call it silly that I
Go to bed each night aching and hurting from the
Things I put my body through? You call it silly that
I can't quite let go of what I've left behind by
Coming here to you and changing everything?
I don't call it silly that I fall asleep each night
Dreaming of the steps I struggle to learn, and wake up
After realising I just did it wrong again, and find myself
Lying there in the dark when everyone is sleeping,
Unable to drift of again. I don't call it silly that
I walk around in too-small jeans because I spent
My clothing allowance on my dance clothes and shoes
So that I could do this. I don't call it silly that this
Is my life now, this is everything I am, this is what stops me
From moving on and doing different things.
What do you call silly? The look on my face
When I realise I can't do this and I never will? The way
That I don't pick things up as quickly as others, the way
That I tried to ask you what you were asking me to do
And you shouted at me, and told me I was being lippy,
When really I didn't understand? Yes, I cried, and I
Hate myself for letting you see that I was hurting, hate
Myself for showing how difficult it was for me. But you
Said I was being silly when really all I was doing
Was trying to understand. I was doing my best.