(Content Warnings: body image, allusions to an eating disorder and self-harm) — most of this is fictional**

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Shallow breaths. Sharp. Stuttering—no, stop.

Take a long breath. Inhale, exhale.

When did ballet become a chore?

I had loved to dance and I was good at it. Because I was unaware and let myself free, an extension of me—became the choreography.

Take me back to that childhood innocence, that childhood unawareness. To when life was simpler and my body thinner. In my mind, I was alone. Just music and motion, swaying untetheredly, my movements a swirling spirit.

“It’s a good discipline,” my father likes to say.

“Don’t quit it. You dance so lovely,” my mom insists.

But all I sense are the music cues shifting—disfiguring into a tenser melody, the trepidation crawling through the flesh of my body like silken worms.

Me and the other girls all shift behind the stage wings, the spotlights glaring in our peripherals.

The melody blares furiously, pounding the ground. An atmosphere of sweat and deadly concentration.

Focus. You’re about to go on. One more minute.

Dance used to be freeing.

While dancing, all I used to think about was my body.

Now all I can think about is my body.

My legs will never be thin enough. Should’ve ate less. Nausea slivers into my stomach, eddying into a thick puddle of self-hatred and disgust.

I hate the thin straps of this leotard. My gut shows through it and I can’t hide my discolored underarms. I want to shed this skin, let the weight bleed. Beautiful crimson like wine staining porcelain. No need for this body. Put me in another, tear my soul, and shred the flesh from my traitorous form.

The notes take on a disconcerting staccato. Sweat clings to my back, choking me into a heated frenzy.

Every movement, every breath. It’s not enough, it’s never enough. I will never achieve anything in my life. How can I when my feet don’t arch perfectly? When my taut limbs won’t carve to my will? When my arms are stiff, lines of disgrace?

What is a ballerina if her feet betray her? If her body drags when it should float?

The fluorescent, nauseating lights tauntingly fade out with the audience’s applause. And with bated breaths, they wait for us.

And with a last shallow inhale, I run out. Legs trembling. Imaginary scarlet I wish I could spill.