The Ballerina

She was but a fluttering twist of pink

chiffon and streaming ribbons, able to kiss

wedding-cake ceilings and smile half-heartedly;

Spindly limbs in a tangled mess against claret

lips, enveloped shut with stitched black thread

that shrouded her whispery, butterfly voice -

A voice that shook violently in airtight jars,

knuckles laced together in quiet rebellion,

eyes that sank gently into a softened chasm

of regret; past mistakes in a lulled nostalgia.

Ruptured anemic wrists flourished with tight

decoration, suited best for porcelain dolls,

that spiraled up milky white arms;

She heard the archaic tunes of radio, mind

struggling to grasp a frequent tune she heard

when she had only been but a child.

Dance, dance, dance - she fought against her

body, her instrument in a harmonious sonata,

that wanted, so very desperately, to stop.