Dancer
By Zuri Kenyatte
I wonder if I can turn into two different people
The pretty one, and her polar opposite
The me of fever dreams that reflection could never reach
She’s black, but not “too black”
She’s pretty, kinda
She’s always smiling, and always making jokes
She fades in quietly
Perfectly.
But then she shatters.
She dances neat and clean, pointing each foot until the ankle cracks in agony
Stretching her 4’11 frame until her spine bends and snaps
Her stomach swells with blood
But god forbid she bloats
So she runs and finds something to drain the liquid
“Pain is temporary, but beauty is forever,” she says
As the scarlet liquid flows from her abdomen
She sighs and looks in the mirror
Her reflection grimaces back
A gruesome sight
More like a shadow, she is dimly lit
Just enough to see the scars
Littered like a mangled constellation
They frame a frail figure
Eyes set deep in exhaustion and restraint
A Big nose she loves to hate
Lips slightly parted so not too many words escape
And she smiles, that same tired smile
And dances again.