How I longed to be a
beautiful danseuse, a graceful pirouette
to your greatest desire
-you would see and wish to hold me.

My eyes would not be
worn and tired from searching
the horizon, in constant vigil
-wishing I were better than I was shown.

A haggard face etched
with worry and incessant concern.
Paced in cautioned steps, I wouldn’t have
walked on grounds
habitually carpeted
with shattered
hollowed eggs

Tip-toeing, instead, through existence
as the awkward ballerina
-in ill fitting slippers.