Today?

I put down the character shoes,
the taps, slip soft—
socks onto bare feet.

I lay on the ground,
because my bed is too soft,
and its breathing…

The floor cradles me in its boards,
and splinters acupuncture;
cold needles through my hoodie and sweatpants.

I curl into a ball.
The wood creaks with my joints.

Tomorrow?

I will stand in the studio.
In the mirror, on the marley,
I will hold this body.

Does it have to be good?
No longer is it “good.”
No, just has to be.

My mind wanders, wonders, iwaves today.
I bash my hands against my head.

But tomorrow?

I’ll grip it tight,
and hoist it—
back to my body.

Then, I will dance.