"Love, Your Angry Ballerina" by Amy Sprague
 

In another language

you tell me I am only dancing

in your room for you;

you tell me I am a slip

of a woman, elegantly abstract

across your stage of equations,

silly in my shoes.

 I watch myself in your iris

and I shrink to pose,

turning for you I

want to say,

See? See

how I slip

behind the

curtain,

eating

petals?