Once, I was a contortionist

I put my back up against a wall

And pulled my legs up to my nose

So that I was folded in half

Once, I endured

The whip of words for what

I thought was love

Once, I stood in the rosin pit 

Forcing a turnout I didn’t have

Once, I made myself believe

In unattainable ideals

And schedules I couldn’t keep

And called it grit

Called it big dreams

Once, I became a piece of flimsy paper

Folded and arched—splayed and fractured

A hundred lines running down the middle 

Like one of Picasso’s three dancers:

Jagged, heart-broken—a triangle’s sharp edge

Now, I’m making glorious mistakes

Rounded and fabulously flawed

There’s an open seat next to me

I’m walking through doors without degrees

With unmatched socks and tangled hair

I’m surrendering to spontaneity

I no longer have use for walls

Once I assiduously sewed strings 

On pointe shoes

In a careful crisscross pattern

Now, I’ve detached the strings

The shoes are slipping off 

I will disappoint you