Her body disappears like my voice
When I look too closely in the mirror
Without the pages of a notebook, a pen
To save me.
Now, the edges of these memories sharpen.
I see the cracks in the studio floor beneath her feet,
The lack of turnout in her fifth position.
It is strange to hear my words
Read back to me.
I don't think I wrote them
To have them ever leave the page.
I think I only write
What happens across my brain
When my feet are too weary
To dance anymore.
Does it matter that people and things
Have words,
Have names?
If not,
Why read any book?
A litany of useless letters
Detached from bone, muscle.
Or are words the only things that make the muscle, bone, memory, movement,
Person
Real?
Tags: words writing questions-in-life
Dare I tell them that since I came here to dance
I have been giving pieces of my body away
To ridiculous diets,
To repeated injuries,
To Remington?
And that maybe
I think
With each bit of my body
I lose a little piece of my soul
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