Poetry

Listen,

I’m not a Disney princess,
And I’m not a showgirl either,
That one time I dabbled in burlesque,
I fell, and fell, and bled a little puddle.
It’s too bad, though, because that yearning to be a ballerina
has plagued me for quite some time,
Not sure if it’s the poetic tip-toes,
Or the ribbon, or the body in it’s perfect lines
Twirling on a pointe.
Maybe it all comes down to geometry,
Everything in it’s perfect shape,
The trail of freckles dotting your spine,
Hands cradling my round belly,
And you- your glorious frozen smile-
etched into the space between my shoulder blades,
In the morning time before any cloth whispers to us from the closet, beckoning us to re-mask:
It’s a war out there.

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