On Pointe

Haibun

DiAmaya Dawn
Apr 8, 2019 · 2 min read
Image by Mandy Fontana from Pixabay

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

Lit Up

Welcome to Lit Up -The Land of Little Tales.

DiAmaya Dawn

Written by

Reader, writer, editor, poet, dancer, music addict. Japanophile, pluviophile and attracted by darkness. Part normal, part Greek. www.diamayadawn.com

Lit Up

Lit Up

Welcome to Lit Up -The Land of Little Tales. Here you can read and submit short stories, flash fiction, poetry - in brief, your own legend. We're starting little. But that's how all big stories begin.

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