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The dancer is a patient and must be made to comply. They cannot be trusted with their own sensory perceptions. They suffer from hallucinations of pain and delusions of exhaustion. There is no such thing as malpractice when it comes to the dancer. You cannot be punished enough. Your skin is an interface for needles and pressure cuffs. Your skin exists only to alert him to your mistakes. You must dance in a state of exposure, so he can inspect you for bruises, stains of clumsiness. Do not think your body is something to be admired. You are a disgusting male. But you are not a man. You are stunted. Your anorexic ribs are a kind of descended gynecomastia. Your bulge is sexless, juvenile, and clownlike. Your body is the mannequin and the dress at the same time. Beauty can never exist for you as a noun, but it might as a verb.

I work at the strip mall coffee shop. Scratchy black shirt that itches on my clammy back. Slacks my ass looks too big in. Baseball hat that crushes my sweaty black hair into my ears.

I lean forward to hide my tits. I’ve become a goblin thing, using my shoulders and the bagginess of my shirt to pretend there’s nothing there. Hides my name tag too. HI I’M CANCER. My black cap pulled over my head, just an acne-scarred mouth, they think I’m a high school boy. I mumble so they can’t hear my cleft palate wheeze.

Your teacher is always staring at you. There’s a test, but you can’t focus. Spare pencils are lined up on his desk, pastel pink. He keeps them sharp, and pointed at you.

Snap. Your pencil broke. You need another. You walk up and take one. A whiff of jasmine. A tight gold band clasping the red bud of an eraser. Drag it across your mistakes.