The Dance

By Natasha Marathakode Shafi

The tune changed quickly.

My feet, too slow to keep up.

I felt the whine caught in my throat;

No jagged voice nor sad sniffs.

Mechanically, I whirled.

Almost against the nature of my soft temper.

I could feel the eyes of strangers.

Sharply assessing my gliding.

Is it to their liking? my minds speaks

Like it was meant to be.

I felt nothing but the cold floor and the stillness.

My hands and feet, not mine anymore.

I was willing to let them lead,

Parched and tired, having danced for years.

No time lapse. No memories.

It could have been years, mere days, if you will,

I can't make my mind think.

It's stuck between sadness, regret and obedience.

How cluttered yet empty.

Vines have started to crawl up against my feet,

But they keep moving,

Unhindered by the clinging greens.

They keep draining my soul of freedom and will.

My body feels weak, pitied and bruised.

Yet regret keeps me moving.

Maybe one day, l will earn my voice?

My head is limp against my hunched shoulders.

My arms high in the air,

Busy whirling a storm.

My legs light, and gliding the marble floor, glistening and bright, unlike my eyes.

I have willed myself to this condemnation.

Not a night or day of no regrets.

I have strings, pieces and beauty.

All to their liking, none of mine.

Don't fret for me.

I'll lose feelings, I hope soon,

And remain the doll they adore.

By Natasha Marathakode Shafi