The little ballerina who once prepared

for her number,

who waited, silently,

her warm smile had long ago turned to anxious breath

with her head to the clouds, her feet on the ground,

and tutu in between.

One last moment

by herself in solace

before she steps into the conscience of many

and the eyes of critics.

What are you thinking young ballerina?

What is holding you back?

Why do you stretch your arms         

before the beginning?

Close your sweet little eyes,

Purse your determined copper lips,

and try to move out of the moment,

knowing that you never will.

Small fists bang against your hard skin.

You cry inside out.

You try to wiggle your toes

and breathe.

It’s all over, ballerina.

You had your time.

Sit back into your resting place

and show everyone what you’ve become:

a cold, crystallized version of yourself.

But you are right to lift your             

chin high.                                            

You have no reason to be ashamed.

It was not your doing,

and it cannot be undone.

You were trapped, young ballerina,

and there’s no escaping it.