your mother told you
when she sent you away to learn the dance;
she said to always tell the truth.
her words may seem wise to another, but you know, don’t you?
you know from your short time,
it echoes in your head
brushes across your chest
whispers:
pretty words don’t hold up
in the dark.
because you have eye bags that would never pass airport security
(“it’s genetic”)
how will they fly you out to your dances?
your face is always blotchy. you don’t wear makeup and you sniffle a lot.
(“just allergies”)
no stage eyeliner for you.
tell me, ballerina boy
did you really stop dancing
because
your feet are sore?
or is it perhaps because
you’re ready
to retire your shoes
forever?
did you really sprain your foot?
or did you break your mind?
you, my love
are full of lies
because you and I both know
that the critics don’t matter.
but what of your faithful fans,
what will they say?
who will take your spot
in the dance,
who will take over the role
that was created with a sole purpose
of you playing it?
no one will, my love.
that role was yours alone.