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.