History in the wrong shoes

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Frayed ribbons, overlap in satin shades of pink, obsessed, as gravity I defy to pirouette. Big toes bear weight, bound, boxed, break them in. Court failure to be physically pure, be risqué, be sensual, create allure.

So, reality, and then brutality, struck with cane on turned in legs. Strip and see, in the spotlight I revolve, a prima ballerina, in fluffy tutu, with deformed fucked feet. And then they call me ‘bun head’

A body with no place to hide. Friction, rubbing, calloused, inflamed, torn, chaffed, blistered, broken nails, bones cracked, stress, fractured, heel spurs, ulcers and crooked hammer toes, squished ankles. 

Pain, then surgery.

Meanwhile I am body shaming, anorexia, daydreaming to reduce myself. But I have breasts and hips, a body that betrays. I’ll not be someone’s pigeon, not flying, racing for home.

Did I have to be short? Turn me into a swan, long necked then I can elevate at ‘One’ and ‘Two’ and sweat to the bone, but faster, faster, and spin faster, and spin and spin, and then, explode and fall.

Never lose your smile, it is in my blood, and squeeze your butt, be thin, be beautiful, perfect beyond human. To leave my history on the floor. 

What is the point?

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Carolyn Savidge 2024