This is a poem that I wrote in recognition of the years I spent dancing. About how indescribably great it felt to be on stage, surrounded by everything, and also nothing; alone with my own movements, judgement, and freedom. Ballet is extremely difficult, painful, and labor intensive, but at the end of the day the form of "flight" you're given is remarkable.

Ballet.

A feeling of content as I leave the ground.

A human’s flight.

Chaînés, piqués, fouettes, consume my mind.

Swift motions require more strength than it appears.

Spinning, spinning.

Done gracefully, masking the pain and infuriation.

Pink, black and red everywhere.

Pushing myself beyond all limits,

a young pink shoed dancer.

In action, I unpeel-- blisters on my feet, pains in my knee.

“Turn out your feet” they say,

“Point your toes” they say.

Hide your tears and stay obsequious in order to feel the flight.

The flight; a form of happiness as I am lifted from the ground.

Ballet.

A human’s flight,

a bird in action, unable to stop.