Mar 2018
When I die,
When the skin sinks into the ground
Someone could tell you that I used to bite my nails
There are tiny marks on the tips of the bones
More easily seen,
There are deep bruises on my shin bones,
Where I pressed up onto the wall any way that I could my first year of training
All that means is that I got stronger
Perhaps even more obvious are the healed breaks on the toes
Dance class, failed lifts
Bad turns, ill prepared
Proud of those ones
A little more hidden is the damage to my ankles from sickle feet
Or my knees from running
Maybe they would overlook the slight curve in my spine left over from physical therapy
Someone can tell my story
In all the little bits and pieces
When the skin sinks into the ground
Someone could tell you that I used to bite my nails
There are tiny marks on the tips of the bones
More easily seen,
There are deep bruises on my shin bones,
Where I pressed up onto the wall any way that I could my first year of training
All that means is that I got stronger
Perhaps even more obvious are the healed breaks on the toes
Dance class, failed lifts
Bad turns, ill prepared
Proud of those ones
A little more hidden is the damage to my ankles from sickle feet
Or my knees from running
Maybe they would overlook the slight curve in my spine left over from physical therapy
Someone can tell my story
In all the little bits and pieces
These are all real, except I'm not a ballet dancer, I twirl baton. When you drop a metal stick from thirty feet with no shoes on, your toes will shatter. Also, I am very tall for a female, so my joints wear down quite easily. The marks on my fingers are actually a major reason I want to study anthropology.
