Brialee Turner

BIRTH: I always wanted to
be a ballerina,
to float with the seeming
weightlessness,
feminine and devoid of
the powers of gravity.

Standing tall, the dancers
move together in perfect
synergy.
And sometimes
simply one dancer graces
the stage with
exact grace.

They are beautiful,
I admire them,
and wish to be just as
they are.

Their skirts and tutus
flow with the slightest
movements, a hinting
that their beauty
can affect even the smallest
knittings of fabric.

ADOLESCENCE: When my time came to
be a ballerina,
I did my part to be perfect.

I stood with tallest of
pretense and confidence,
moving in stunning rhythms,
never messing up.

Actually, I did make mistakes.

But I hid them perfectly
underneath layers of
pink, soft tulle.

ADULTHOOD: After a while, the soft pleather
of my slippers was replaced
with the blocky rigidity of
my point shoes.

My toes began to bleed,
but I hid that too.

When I stopped eating in
order to maintain my figure,
the praise of my teachers increased
tenfold.

And when my lover saw me dance,
they admired the specificity of my movments,
and I learned that I needed to be gentle,
a portrait of pink,
in order to be loved.

Precision,
Perfection,
Pain.

Those watching me don’t even realize that they don’t want this either.

PRESENT: Audiences adore me,
they shower me with the words
which describe who they wish
me to be.

I am a creation of their flatterings,
a monster covered in dazzling fabrications.

I look like I am weightless,
but inside,
I am caged.

I am not living,
just performing.

When I leap, my heart feels
as though it is made of
pounds of rocks,
ones that are covered in
the black goo
that is found in dirty mountain rivers.

I take one last jump,
and try to pirouette, but
instead my mind is
left spinning as I careen into the
concrete floor.

Realization hits me as I hit earth.

I was never meant to be
a ballerina.

I was never meant to pretend
to be perfect.

I was never meant to be trapped
behind iron bars made of
sparkling spotlights and praise.

My tutu falls with me
and I rip the delicate fabric
away from my body.

I strip off my leotard,
peeling off a layer of soul plastic.

Last, my shoes.
The ribbons are choking my calves,
and when my toes are released
they breathe by shedding
a few drops of blood.

TOMMORROW: All I have known is classical music,
what my mother, and her mother,
and the mother before that listened to.

First on the radio, then the television,
next the car stereo,
a boombox, a CD,
and lastly headphones.

I start to find the other
beautiful genres of beating hearts.

Rap, reggae, pop,
and soul.

Folk, disco,
pulsating EDM.

I move my body as it is,
starting to find my own rhythm.

There is no perfection in this dance,
only healing movement and
self discovery.

A disco ball glints off
my eyes as I
spin
Around and around and around and around.

Simply feeling,
no expectation of
a certain state of being.

Just art.