Toe touches the bare floor. A drum beat pulses through bone skin blood. Currents of an unpredictable rhythm tickle the senses. And she begins to dance.
Hair pouring over and under. Hips and thighs swivel too fast, too slow. A finger draws up lightly, feeling every sensation. Blur of a color, and swirls of many, one again, follows her movement across the room.
Delicious and wretched visions. Stories and thoughts and words. Violent too deep passion, that she could never speak out loud. She gets lost in the stories. And she cries with you in your too deep passion, the one you will never speak about.
Can you tame her? Thats what they want. To rule over her impracticality. To solve her dangerous questions. To stop her from a reckless dance, of which you are afraid.
What is beautiful about the chaos that clothes her, it is true, it is ours, it’s theirs. But she appears too comfortable, too bold, too free. And some are afraid, a righteous fear must confront.
Marching up, stomping a foot, grabbing her arm. Stop the music. Stop the dance. Order her steps. Drill the right way. Follow this path.
Breath drawn out. Silence. The fearful feel better now. She no longer threatens their secret dances. Violent too deep passions. And dust remains.
If they only knew. She was never her own. Dancing comfortable bold and free. She only saw the scars and inconsistencies with every reckless twirl. She felt the knife stab pain and could endure. If you only knew. Who she danced for.