Love, Your Angry Ballerina

In another language

you tell me I am only dancing

in your room for you,

you tell me I am a stamp

of a woman, elegantly abstract

across your stage of equations,

silly in my shoes.

I watch myself in your iris

and I shrink to pose,

turning for you I

want to say

See?  See

how I slip

behind the

curtain,

eating

petals?

 

published in Psychic Meatloaf, issue 3

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4 Comments

  1. This makes me just want to sit back and say “ah”–wonderful write!

    Like

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