Broken Ballerina

In my fluid motion and flawless executions, I spin and twirl until my head feels as light as I feather and then I slow down almost to a halt but not quite because at that moment I transition into another execution that requires me to make a jump and I flip and upend coming to a halt in twist. Perfection is my art, I do not have room for mistakes.

I am a Ballerina or I used to be. Now I am a broken ballerina, my back is fine and my feet is firm yet I am broken like a twig trampled on by a load two times its mass. I am broken, as broken as the wings of the bird that fell from a height, born to fly yet broken by a fall, I am broken.

From a Corps de Ballet to Prima Ballerina Assoluta I was a marvel to be-hold they called me the Goddess of the floor. The moment I step on my toes my world spins and I transform into the most beautiful swan, glorious in all forms and I put on a show. The faces of my audience as I entice them with my art were magical and it urged me to move them to their core.

My mirrors crumbled from the top to the floor and I cried until my eyes bled. They burned my stage and broke my beams as I watched in horror as they shattered my dreams. The flames burned my hard work and my art, I was not a swan anymore, I became a frog. Perfection died before my eyes and as the thick black smoke rose to the heavens, so did my art and my soul, pieces of me broke off and flew, they mixed with the smoke and put on a show. I watched them become one as they twisted and twirled, flipped and spun, it was magic and god was watching.

Call me the Broken Ballerina, I am not perfect and I am not a swan. I was once a marvel to behold but I have being robbed of my future. I do not dance the dance of the gods now and I do not listen to the music of angels. I am merely human, lost a crowd.