The Dance

My destiny. She’s so close, I physically feel the comfort and security that she provides with only her presence. I feel it as the breeze picks up my long hair and moves it from one shoulder to the other. As I close my eyes and let my heart beat, only reveling in my existence for a moment, I feel her telling me “I’m right beside of you.”

When I open my eyes, doubt meets me and there he stands with his hand reached out.

“May I have this dance?”

I bow my head. One foot in front of the other and when I look up again our eyes connect, face-to-face. Why do I have to dance… why can’t we just sit, talk for awhile? Wouldn’t sitting in silence allow time for our spirits to speak? I want my presence to be admired sometimes, as it is.. offering nothing at all. Why do you make me feel like that’s wrong?

“I just don’t feel like it,” I can hardly muster out.

“We don’t have to.”

He coldly lets go of my hand. Before I can take it back and change my mind, he’s gone. I can’t find my voice to call back out to him; I’m all alone. I’ve disappointed myself by entertaining his dance. I’m ultimately the author and I’m hard on myself. “You can’t turn around and go back now. Nobody is even there expecting you. You’re on your own, girl.”

So I drown in this in between. I feel tricked by the past that calls out my name only when I can offer exactly what it needs. Abandonment preys on my loyalty. I have to look back in order to find the cistern within me that would source the right water. It’s been entirely drained. In order to let water in, I have to breathe life back into something God told me was no longer. The further destruction can take me away from my destiny, the closer he can get to me. I pull the plug and I watch the water fill in as it begins to swim around my ankles.

“Have I done a good thing? This is for you.”

He plays the songs he knows I love. He listens to me. He hears me. I feel safe for a moment and his hand stretches out.

“Dance with me.”

Hand in hand, the melody sings a sad song. It hits the right notes and wakes up a quiet place inside of me. A place where my sadness can spark a beautiful harmony. It’s an innocent, pure, raw place that encapsulates my most intimate emotions. He brings it out of me not to let it live, but to bring it to death. The less I can feel the less I can express. The more that I can numb, the less I’ll even think. The more I forget, the less I’ll remember and if I don’t remember what my pain felt like then maybe I’ll do something to find it again. Maybe this time he could keep me.

He can see that my mind is working and my destiny is strong. I’ve told him my innermost feelings without saying a word.

“You’re so pretty,” he lifts my face with his hand on my cheek.

Pretty girls forget. Pretty girls don’t fight. Pretty girls lead pretty lives.

The dance gets harder now as I’m knee deep in these murky waters. Dammit. I didn’t even want to dance. I’m shaking my head. Why am I here? I’m not safe and I can see so clearly the trap I just fell into. Now, the easier option seems like submerging myself. Maybe if my body felt weightless I could find some reprieve. Maybe if I was under water for a few minutes… people would forget about me. I would forget about me. I wouldn’t have to think about these things. I could just be numb to the touch; a voiceless, pretty girl.

I don’t want to dance with you anymore.

“The Dance”

** I wanted to add that writing, for me, is very much an art form as well as a way to release real feelings. Those two factors lead my poetic voice to be dramatic in the hopes to paint a vivid picture that readers can visualize as well as feel within themselves. The intention is meant for various personal and intimate interpretations.

I write from my present mind and wisdom I’ve gained while simultaneously allowing myself to “feel again” from times in my life where I wasn’t as strong as I am today. It helps me move on, it helps me make sense of what I’ve gone through. I find beauty in the trials of my life as they’ve helped shape who I am today. I love who I am. I love who I’ve become.

Too often do we all fall under the “pretty life, pretty person” syndrome and forget healing can be found in sharing emotions vulnerably, especially when they’re not desirable emotions to have. For over half of my life, I didn’t even know how to begin to make sense of who I was because some of it was downright ugly and nobody wants to see the pretty girl cry.

I always felt like expressing my feelings or admitting sadness really threatened other people’s comfort and therefore got brushed off. I was trapped in a repetitive dance of shame and almost getting out from underneath of it. Shame for not being prettier: happier, more energetic, nicer. I almost got out so many times. I almost really loved who I was capable of becoming.

Now I do. Sharing helps me stay out and on top. We can’t run from sadness forever, sometimes, we’ve got to feel it to understand and conquer it. The human capability to share feelings, thoughts, emotions and experiences is beautiful and something to be comfortable with ❤️ **

Xoxo!