The Ballerina

Her skeletal spine bows like a crescent
A single violin, thin and hollow
Bends her farther still
Tiny ivory steps across the palette of her back
And aching
A waning waxen figure enslaved by sound
Starved so that she can not exist as a
She is only music
Her heart beats fast against her translucent chest
Her hunger screams from behind emaciated ribs
Possessed by drums and strings not belonging to her fragile anatomy

Compelled forward in measured movements
She is a weightless apparition en pointe
She devours the darkness around her
Chasing the music in spotlighted circles until she has illuminated the floor
And she seems human
For a moment
With quivering muscles and bleeding toes and breath behind her painted lips
But then the music stops and she falls
As a petal to the floor
Folding into herself and
becoming the silence