She dances.

Feet sore but they still soar like an angel on a cloud. Her age is still unripe and her skin is still soft without a crease. Her veins stretch through her skin when she leaps.

She dances. Across the floor in an empty room with an old wooden door. That keeps her attention as she spins. When she turns her head her eyes lock at the browndark faded color. Reminding her of another, who looks just like her brother.

She dances away the pain and issues of her life and her day. Every time her tip toes beat the ground she pretends it is him. She dances upon his body to keep her quiet. He lays there and can’t move; in shock he lets her dance on his soul less flesh. Breaking him hurting him and she still dances.

She has no fear of him ever coming back when she dances. She still feels that distinct aggression unlike any other. She dances. catching every beat and every rough point in the sound. Not missinga thought of why she can dance so well.

When he beats her to hell and she feels the devil bite on her lip. Taunting her, gripping her skin with anger. She dances.

Butshe came back to live strong and the shoesshe ties are for ballet. So she ties them every day. Never forgetting why she can dance. And can never hold her father’s hand.

She dances.