Folded dancing shoes placed in boxes of white lace, and wrapped with pink ribbons, memories of an innocence not conquered by blood, scars, and tears. A dancer’s thighs wide open in a split forced by sinful hands; hands that silenced screams, and punished the truth, hands that frightened the hands of the ticking clock — time got stuck at the same minutes, the same hours of the same day.
Moonlight peeking in
From windows that hid the truth
In dark, silenced nights
Now standing in front of the same windows of the same haunted house, her breathing has eased its rhythm, her eyes are dim no longer, and the hands of time hide a smile from a mouth that no longer screams in the dead of the night, but rather sings for the girl that now knows not to fear the dark, for truth will always shine like the most pristine of swords, cutting pain into millions of little pieces that will fly from that very window following the wind of a damned eternity.
Her own heartbeat echoes a melody of desire for life, and she dances again for all the ghosts she has chased away, and for all the nightmares she turned into soft, mellow songs.
And the garden glows
Under the warm morning sun
When she stands on pointe.
First published in Mookychick