A peach colored flower pokes through my perfectly arranged bun.
A white tutu envelops my petite frame.
The chatter of the audience starts to fill the studio.
The fast beating of my heart.
I observe the older dancer, her poise and her grace.
I long to be her.
My instructor’s words echo in my head.
Dance class always evokes thoughts of self-consciousness.
The pressure to be perfect.
The fast beating of my heart.
The voices of the crowd come to a decrescendo.
My silky pink shoes contrast against the faded wooden floor.
I stand in position.
The fear of failure looms over me.
The fast beating of my heart.
The sweating of my palms.
I dance.