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When I was little my mother put me in several ballet classes in hopes to bring some grace to my stumbling gait.
I grew up walking on eggshells, wobbling to keep my balance on a tightrope that never really ended.
My instructor pinched my thighs and shook her bony finger at me every tuesday and thursday for three and a half years.
4 am, I'm still tiptoeing around the creaks in the stairs as if anyone would notice an empty bed.
This Christmas I came across the broken reminents of the ballerina ornaments my younger sister used to play with.
I never did master the delicate posture I was expected to adopt. My feet fell a bit too heavy, I suppose, on the ice tonight.
I'm not cold anymore, just exhausted from attempting to balance the wrong things for too long.
My life is flashing before my eyes, but all I see is a younger version of myself practicing Grand Battements on thin ice while everyone slept.
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