The ballerina twirls
in her porcelain skirt,
Twirls thin and white
on her pretty box
With shimmering music notes
spinning around her.
A pale hand
stabbing the air above her head,
The other hand holding a stomach
that dips rather than protrudes.
She spins on pale legs,
twig-thin and ready to snap.
How do those tipped toes hold her up
so stable and strong,
How does she find the energy to
keep spinning, keepkeep spinning?
I think if I take a closer look
at those tiny dark eyes open wide,
I will see the shine of hidden tears;
she is not allowed to cry.