When my leg grazes my head,
they pull in a straight line.
My brown, dry, scabbed skin is revealed.
Slick buns draw blood from our hairlines.
Instructors pluck the fly-aways from the root of our scalps.
Skin-tone tights make our legs look
Perfect.
Covering the streaks of scars from when the instructors grab hold of our limbs,
tearing muscles in opposite directions.
Slippery metal pipes made into a Barre,
is the only support.
Standing in a straight line,
In the blur of turns,
we spot our black-circled eyes in the mirror each time.
Cracking the arch of our foot because we cannot fall.
Two of us do a quadruple-turn.
We are
Safe.
The rest have moments.
Musty metallic hands palm their face and their buns.
Ripping what remains from their head.
The instructor’s well-kept nails are scratching their tights to shreds.
Their agony is a haunting echo.
Tension as thick as the blood smeared on the instructor’s
white leotard.
Facing backwards
The rip in my tights has become
Visible.
The instructor gives a Sinister smile,
their steps grow quickly,
loud under the hollow floors.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
I once watched myself sleep, but when I woke, there was only one version of myself.