Pink Leather slowly turning grey,
worn by years of pirouettes
on shiny, hardwood floors.
Tights run from continued use,
strings pulling out to form a spider web
of tattered holes down my legs.
Leaps that landed wrong,
form scrapes at my knees-
twisted ankles that lent me
quality time with my favorite brace-
and blisters with five band aids...
just to cushion against my shoes.
I wear my favorite leotard,
with broken straps
and holes through the spandex and cotton blend.
Yarn is pulling from my leg warmers and wrap sweater,
hiding bruises from that jump I’d practiced for hours-
and hit the floor again…
Threads hang from the skirt I’ve had for 3 years...
but, that’s three years of too many memories to replace it
without a guilty conscious of abandoning a friend.
My makeup runs mixing with the sweat
of tendu, passe, tendu, plie, LEAP!
And point your toes,
And don’t forget to breathe.
Strands of sweat soaked hair
fall from what was once a perfect bun,
and wisps break out of their hair gel hold...
as I prepare to run it again…
from the top.
Out of breath,
but smiling all the same.
So tell me again it’s not a sport.