my parents always told me i was beautiful
my gramps calls me cutie
my pops calls me sweetness
my mama looks at me, and in her eyes i feel like the. most. spectacular. flower.

yet i rarely believe

i look in that damn mirror and see a form not belonging to me
i see a face filled with doubt, veiled with desire
i see a body objectified as an ideal feminine form
but one that brings me uncertainty and shame
one that i've yet to embrace lovingly
calling it my own
urging it to live inside love and art

this body,
this form,
is to be the vehicle for my art.

but how can i create art that i love in a body i don't?

a dancer's tool is her body
it must be kept fit
strong limber trained beautiful

(but what equates beauty?)

the mirror reflects strength
but magnifies weakness

everytime she falls out of a pirouette
everytime her extension plateaus
everytime she grabs for the barre like a person drowning
gasping for air

everytime

the mirror is there
reminding her of those faults and failures
that prevent her dreams

bump bruise tear sore strain break sore pain no pain no gain stiff neck leg knee ankle back ache pain sore blister blood scrape burn pain sore cry me a river....

a ballerina is perfect...
she straps a block of cement to her toes,
plasters on a smile,
and packages pain with a pretty pink satin bow.

five six seven eight
and one...
lift
present
turn out
extend
show me your jewels
hold it
be great
point your feet
stretch your leg
spot
beat
faster
listen to your music
get it up!
you sound like an elephant
land softly
again
the floor is your friend
take a chance
do it better
get up and try it again
i shouldn't see any sweat
no pain, no gain
open your back
find your center
turn out
lift
again!
hold it
lift it
stretch
smile
push harder
plie!!!
quick turn turn turn leap
slow breathe extend
turn out!!!
AGAIN!!!
perform
command attention
dancer's don't hurt
dancer's don't cry
dancer's don't sweat
dancer's are everything unrealistic

be beautiful

my art is not exclusive
my expression has no bounds

- yet -

my body's bounds persist
and my limitations loom before me

they grow exponentially,
performing with perfection
the leaps and bounds
i wish i could

When a character, idea, melody inhabits my body, I can safely lose control. I use my body to voice things I can't say. Or that I don't know how to or even that I want to say.

The essence of me was alive and well the moment my mother bore me into this world, with all my potential successes and blunders. And though it's shell took a number of years to develop, it has taken much longer for me to even begin to like the physical representation of myself.