Sep 2014
She had swayed to the beat, moving her feet.
Her movements could life spirits beyond the flesh.
Her body was the brush, painting on the floor and the lives around her that would be her canvas.
She would surely leave her mark.
She was a wildfire – fierce, rhythmic and uncontrollable- affecting everything in her way. Don’t try to hold her back, because you simply can’t.
She was a dancer.
Not for her pliés, relevés, sautés or pirouettes,
but because rather than waiting for the storm to pass she had spent all her life dancing in the rain.
No one got it, and she wasn’t sure if they ever would.
No one got it.
They didn’t understand her music.
They didn’t understand the thing that made her soul sting,
the thing she she’d fight ‘til the very death for, rather than have die. They didn’t understand that this was her. That this was all she had left to give. That every day was a constant rhythm and not dancing was impossible. That this was the only way to keep the thoughts out of the way and to keep pushing on every single, ****** day. She had danced ‘til dancing was her excuse for pushing life out of the way. She danced ‘til not dancing was just impossible and being open was life’s biggest struggle. She had danced ‘til her heart and feet were numb - ‘Til her feet were beyond the point of being calloused and until everyday they’d bleed.
She had wondered if this was a genetic trait passed down her bloodline,
one that she couldn’t avoid even though desperately wanted.
One that was tacked onto her simply because of the colour of her skin.
Talks like this of blaming things on race and colour had disgusted her, but
you see her mother was a great dancer.
Every other night at 4am, when she’d wake up for a glass of water as little girl, she saw her stretching - shedding tears that is, before the dance she had to inevitably endure the same day. That’s when she began to dance, because she thought she simply had to.
On the inside, she was the kind of flower that was so beautiful that you just wanted to pick it up, but rather let it live in all its beauty. The kind of flower that in its presence made you think about the simple beauties of the world. But you wouldn’t know because
**** did she dance.
No one got it, and she wasn’t sure if they ever would.
No one got it.
They didn’t understand her music,
and when they tried to come close eardrums burst because the music was too loud,
so there she was, all alone. In the distance.
Pouring out her soul into this world,
body shaking, heart palpitating.
To feelings and to a struggle that was old,
but constantly played on repeat, like a vinyl record.
She violently swayed to the beat, moving her feet.
She was a dancer.
Not for her pliés, relevés, sautés or pirouettes,
but because rather than waiting for the storm to pass she had spent all her life dancing in the rain.
Her movements could life spirits beyond the flesh.
Her body was the brush, painting on the floor and the lives around her that would be her canvas.
She would surely leave her mark.
She was a wildfire – fierce, rhythmic and uncontrollable- affecting everything in her way. Don’t try to hold her back, because you simply can’t.
She was a dancer.
Not for her pliés, relevés, sautés or pirouettes,
but because rather than waiting for the storm to pass she had spent all her life dancing in the rain.
No one got it, and she wasn’t sure if they ever would.
No one got it.
They didn’t understand her music.
They didn’t understand the thing that made her soul sting,
the thing she she’d fight ‘til the very death for, rather than have die. They didn’t understand that this was her. That this was all she had left to give. That every day was a constant rhythm and not dancing was impossible. That this was the only way to keep the thoughts out of the way and to keep pushing on every single, ****** day. She had danced ‘til dancing was her excuse for pushing life out of the way. She danced ‘til not dancing was just impossible and being open was life’s biggest struggle. She had danced ‘til her heart and feet were numb - ‘Til her feet were beyond the point of being calloused and until everyday they’d bleed.
She had wondered if this was a genetic trait passed down her bloodline,
one that she couldn’t avoid even though desperately wanted.
One that was tacked onto her simply because of the colour of her skin.
Talks like this of blaming things on race and colour had disgusted her, but
you see her mother was a great dancer.
Every other night at 4am, when she’d wake up for a glass of water as little girl, she saw her stretching - shedding tears that is, before the dance she had to inevitably endure the same day. That’s when she began to dance, because she thought she simply had to.
On the inside, she was the kind of flower that was so beautiful that you just wanted to pick it up, but rather let it live in all its beauty. The kind of flower that in its presence made you think about the simple beauties of the world. But you wouldn’t know because
**** did she dance.
No one got it, and she wasn’t sure if they ever would.
No one got it.
They didn’t understand her music,
and when they tried to come close eardrums burst because the music was too loud,
so there she was, all alone. In the distance.
Pouring out her soul into this world,
body shaking, heart palpitating.
To feelings and to a struggle that was old,
but constantly played on repeat, like a vinyl record.
She violently swayed to the beat, moving her feet.
She was a dancer.
Not for her pliés, relevés, sautés or pirouettes,
but because rather than waiting for the storm to pass she had spent all her life dancing in the rain.
