Watching you dance, I cannot help but feel
As though you must be incorporeal
You move as though full of air- nothing else
Surely the rest of us humans cannot claim such grace

Because you are effortless pirouettes
You walk as though always onstage
Floating rather than stepping
Smiling softly at those who pass

I watch you from the ground where I live
My feet are heavy,
I stumble more often than leap,
And it seems my knees are always skinned

Your voice is smooth,
Your eyes always soft
You have an arsenal of kindnesses
Always ready to say just the right thing

I am a stumbling, staggering speaker
My eyes hidden far below bangs
I trip over soft words,
Finding only cruelty when I need warmth

You are poise
And I am dysfunction
You are perfection
And I am chaos

So now, I have to ask,
Why would you
Want such an insensitive klutz
As your friend?

POINT YOUR TOES!
Lift one foot high up In the air!
Sashay left,
Sashay right,
Make sure to keep you legs up high!
SPLIT REASONS LIKE YOUR LEGS,
FOR GODS SAKE LIFT YOUR HEAD,
POINT, HEEL,
TUCK your ribs,
LETS GO ACROSS THE FLOOR,
QUICKER THEN WHEN YOU TRIED TO RUN,
COUNT.
one, two, three,
Hands around me.
Sunken faces,
You weren't drunk,
Just a water,
Was just enough.
LIFT YOU LEG OVER YOUR HEAD,
KICK IT HIGHER!
Try to kick away the pain,
Or set you memories on fire!
Burning hotter then your limbs!
Keep your form tight!
Keep your feet just right!
If only it would have stopped,

Him.

Burning passion, gentle movements, and unwavering precision
Are only three sets of words that describe her
She moved en pointe with her ink-dipped shoes and wrote herself down on the pages of my existence
Delicate cursive appeared across the blank, unlined leaves
Creating soothing poetry amidst all the chaotic rants in the pages before
I watched as each step, throw, and turn add new words to the narrative
The spotlight followed her every movement as she floated across the stage
Jotting down line after line of her calming words

The lights faded after she ended the fourth stanza
And she was greeted with thunderous applause by the voices in my head
I could see her silhouette dance slowly on the unlit stage
She spun for what seemed like hours before the lights came back on

There she stood

The once pure and clean ballerina in white was drenched in blood and ink
She moved aggressively and without remorse painting rough lines on the soft syllables she'd written for me
Her eyes glowed with unholy strength as she knelt upon my pages
And ripped them from one corner to the other, tearing the book's spine
All I  could do was stare at her as she smiled at her work
And silently exit stage left

“Dearest Degas,” she scrawled
script tipped and tainted by blood,
a reward only the most skilled of movement makers receive,
one she gives away all too freely.
“It’s times like these that make me think
I used to be a lot closer to God
and to you,
but the lines are blurring now
between you two
and I am burning now with memories
of the arch of your back echoed by brows
crested by beads of sweet sweat
raised higher still with finger-lickin’ lies
and lowered by our goodbyes.
They say my knees got lazy,
but I pray en pointe daily
at that battered barre,
my altar
closer to God than they’ve ever been.
And it’s His name I speak,
spoke
over us as we rolled in our sin.
‘Turn to God!’ they screamed
but you were always a better comforter than He.
And without you to give me form,
I will dance no more.”

There she stands
Centre stage
The house lights begin to dim

She has always been
Well liked
And loved
By many
She has always
Stood up
Been brave
Given plenty

But nothing can compare
To the dance she shouldn't dare
To the music
Only she can ever feel

She'll twirl, pirouette
On one leg, arabesque
This pas de deux adagio
Except just by herself
First plié
Then Grande jeté
She shan't try
The tour en l'air
Turn out
Turn in
Plié again
The crowd stands on their feet
Round of applause
She's a lost cause
Shes out of frame
He'll never be her balletomane

my shy, hesitant frame was first taken to obligatory ballet lessons when it was only 5 years old
the pale pink clinging leotards and scuffed leather slippers decorated with neat string bows would always outweigh the strain of my mothers scraping nails against my scalp in order to achieve the perfect ballerina bun seconds before each and every lesson in the vastly daunting and vacant room
where our innocent and wide-eyed little selves were our sole company in the face of the towering glass pane staring straight back at us
the sheen of the never-ending polished pole stretched right across the middle
and we strained to try and make ourselves grow taller than each other
to look like real dancers practising their pliés for hours upon hours
and I made my small body bear the unbearable
the strung out aching the myriad of assorted stretches lit in my weak limbs as I tried to train my fingers to kiss my tippy toes
like a desperate attempt at mimicking the distance between fingertips in The Creation of Adam
always almost within reach
but never meeting
soon enough the pink and the pretty and the pleasing image this form of dance appeared to me to be was no longer enough
and the sparkles and sequins and garish glitter costumes began to fade along with reflecting rainbow coloured stage lights and 4 years worth of overpriced Academy Lessons and Exams

I guess I gave up on touching my toes

home was grandiose in the poems
so it didn't exist.
it had to be fantasy
where there weren't tears on your tuxedo
but the alcohol stains of acceptance. and love?
love couldn't fly away on an aeroplane;
love stayed.
and clouds didn't swell into
empty promises; they
gathered their things and rained.
yes, you don't believe in home anymore
but god, you miss it.
so you'll drink beer at the ballet and pretend
that home is in the poems you've written today.

Step 1, 2, 3

Three more days, the moment my heart has been waiting for
Shining as bright as a star

Dazzling the crowd as center stage
Feeling free, strong, and bright
The moment I’ve been training for

Step 1, 2, 3*

Crack

Screaming, bright lights, tears

Shattered