Red Glass – Yawp

You say you want a gift for Christmas. 

Mother says you are the gift, 

They wish they could have what you have, Katarina.  

                                                                                                       Perfection.

Eyes ooze with envy while watching 

the heavenly ways in which your body molds 

to fit the picture in the master’s mind, 

the scolding feels like praise at times 

because you know they are watching 

you. 

                                                        Perfection. 

Arms strong and slim and tight 

above your bun, leg light as it whips to the side 

and snaps in with a spin

sweat altering your vision as your toes

bubble with blood inside your pointe shoes,

and everything burns with every turn. 

This doesn’t feel like a gift, this 

                                                     perfection. 

Head feels like it’s floating,

you should be gloating while jealousy thickens the air 

but despair is all you feel as you remove your pointe shoes 

and red is painted on the pink silk. 

There is pain only you see in your 

                                                    perfection.

And as your eyes were still blinded by the

hard work, and your mind was tied in knots, 

the green girls were filling your pointe shoes with glass 

like Saint Nicholas fills candy in a stocking on Christmas Eve. 

You got what you wanted for Christmas, Katarina:

A gift other than your 

                                                                                                         Perfection.