Ballerina.

She is a ballerina, she is beautiful,
and she walks by with her head held high,
yet she takes out a mirror to try and tame the wild curl
that made her ballet teacher so angry when she was seven.
Unless she is behind the thick stage curtains,
she never takes her shoes off,
because she can never take the bruises off either.

She is a ballerina, she is beautiful,
yet she has to break herself in little parts,
tiny enough to fit in the spectator’s gaze.
When she tip-toes on the parquet during a pas-de-deux,
you can hear the friction of his hands against her tutu
but can never hear her weeping for her joints snapping.

She is a ballerina, she is beautiful,
but the most beautiful is that her spine, like reeds,
doesn’t break but twists itself.
Her repaired body has a newfound springiness ;
she uses this strength to maintain her façade
and nurture her pride which survives somewhere in her curved back.

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