In a white room with a black metal folding chair there’s a girl that lies on the floor in the corner. Eyes closed tight, as she holds back the tears, her blond hair, matted (with tears) across her pale face. She sits there trembling, as her long, skinny finger reaches up to tuck the hair away from her face and behind her ears. Her tongue suddenly sweeps across her faded rose lips misting them from the drying tears. She stands up to put the dimming candle out as her scrawny knee buckles under the mere one hundred twenty pounds, on a five foot six inch frame of a dancer. She struggles to stay standing as her fitted cream top snags the window sill. She pulls away from it ripping her sweats and top, the only thing protecting her from the cold of the room. She lies back down after a while, still holding back a tear from all the pain. There on the floor she lies, shivering as the room darkens. There she lies, laying ever so still, she finally surrenders. There on the floor still trembling, bruised, and beat her muscular calf now bleeding below the long scar on her knee. There she lies, defeated, in the corner.
In a White Room
April 4, 2009