Writing Samples

With the music, I awake. 

It is like I unfold from myself, away from myself. My skirt is powdered and full: pink tulle which never seems to loose shape. Sometimes I wish it would. Sometimes I wish I could escape this wretched place and dance in a rabid way. Something wild. Something where my soft slippers are covered in dirt and adventure. Run to a place I can let my hair run down my shoulders. Do something, anything, but dance. 

And yet, I cannot.

Once again, I am pulled away from these thoughts and into the careful steps of the routine. En pointe en attitude, here I stand—one leg propped above the knee. Un jeté, un rond de jambe. My feet are numb. The ribbons tied over my calves dig into my skin. I cannot look down. I must wear my painted smile and leap and twirl. I must always keep the neck long, stretching it so my jugular bobs against my flesh. I imagine it bursting. Slitting my throat as it is finally free. How can none of the audience see it? My bloody vein lurching like a slug across the dark wood. I want to scream. I am looking at my left hand extended as far as I can reach, my neck leaking gore down my costume, and they applaud. Of course, this is all in my head.