• The pure white tutu falling elegantly around her thighs.
    Not one hair out of place, no make-up smudged.
    She is the image of controlled perfection.
    A mechanical ballerina not allowed to live.
    Eyes, once alight with the joy of dancing,
    Now driven to be so empty and bleak.
    There is no such thing as a free ballerina
    For an audience, unquenchable, is much a cage as any other.
    She steps up onto the stage,
    A smile plastered on her face, a facade, as she takes her position.
    Trapped by expectant gazes.
    She twirls and jumps, in a dance worked to precision.
    Applause breaks out but its will never be enough for long.
    Greater expectations will soon replace ovation.
    She is excellence, yet broken behind closed doors.
    She knew it would be her undoing, yet she pushes.
    Only a matter of time before she breaks.