She was clad in sweat stained leotards,
while the moth shook a fore boding finger of disapproval and undermine at her.
One foot held her balance and the other pointed to the sky,
and still reproachful glances and murmurs of not good enough rang through the studios and gyms,
but stricken as she was with an unsupportive moth she leaped into sweet ivory air,
her two muscled legs parallel to the ground.
And behind she heard the distant voice of you're only average, never good enough.
the barre it held her tightly and she wound her grip more fiercely.
she spun into an elastic orbit and absorbed herself in music.
beneath a beam of beige suspended her,  and the eyes of the moth stared hatefully as if to say, give up.
she craned and arched her back, let her hands become her feet and for a brief moment she was untouchable by many.
the fluttering of wings was her own. toes and hands that were covered in blisters. magnesium chalk, pink ribbons that fell from her shoes and leotards clad in sweat. dreams with a taste that's unimaginable. and still the moth says she dreams too high, but what is normal, to be one with all the rest, or to be the one above the rest?