Writhing snake flames

whip themselves into and out of existence

Last year’s closet doors are burning

Smoky, with the sickening scent of

memories

of times

when tightropes stretched between days

and I tip-toed poised between expectation and honesty

twirling lopsided on an axis of fear

like a broken ballerina.

 

Day by day I wavered,

leaning guiltily toward honesty,

terrified of being fully real

Consumed by that ghostly presence

hell-bent on eating up my inner essence

No one recognized my balancing act for what it was;

No tried one peeked behind the mask

They took me at face value,

all my quirks and effervescence.

 

I’d had enough.

Breathing deep,

filling my lungs with toxic fumes for the last time,

I let myself fall

in the slow, tearful descent of a vase

knocked over by a clumsy child

The haze cleared as I tore through the air,

and a smile worked its way into my lips

Down below I spied

a safety net I’d never known was there

And reaching up with open arms,

my family,

my friends,

my self.

 

Now I return to the flickering fire,

its smoke spiraling upward, away

into the deep, deep night

Eyes closed, I bask in the newfound warmth of acceptance

and my soul spins ever so slowly into the complacency

of love

My candle flame heart dances

This year,

even in a dress suit,

I can be a ballerina.