My Ballerina

Arrested by grace; a shudder of pain and beauty as she treads upon broken glass – head held high. Delicate limbs; fragility in contrast to the strength of her pounding legs. Palms outstretched, offering a body to the world; knowing that it dare not touch her in this moment.

Each movement flows into the next – the fluid lift of an arm to the thrust of her weightless structure, balanced upon narrow toes. The progression seems effortless. She is radiance – flawless and pure; completely apathetic to the rising symphony as it eggs her forward. She does not see the audience. She does not hear the music. There is but one command: to annihilate fear – and by art, she has succeeded. At long last, blissfully free, and nothing – nothing could ever touch her again.

Her skirt flies about carelessly – a brilliant auburn, like playful autumn leaves. She experiences a piercing veneration for the stage as it supports her prancing feet. A veneration for the air, as it whisks by, graced by an elevated face – a veneration for the lights, as they illuminate nude skin; burning with an unquenchable fire –

And that warmth – the happiness which surrounds her and holds them captivated – comes from a single, genuine love: her self-esteem. The introverted understanding that she is her own person, and that, no matter what hardships lay in wait, no matter what they do to her in the years to come, or what trials subject her mind – she has something that they cannot steal. For how could she feel anything but exalted, being what she is – with a vision for the future? A vision that is hers and hers alone.

They may take her home, her clothing, her possessions in the night – but they may not take her intellect, her ability or her pride.