And She’ll Dance Again

Unsteady feet, she is trying to get back up. She holds her hands out for support but there is no one around. Her breathing has paced up, her chest heaving in and out… Trying to gather all the strength she has and pull herself up again. There is a piercing pain shooting through her legs and the wound of betrayal is still fresh in her head. She was dancing, just a minute ago, a partner next to her, with grace and poise, but now she is on the floor. She was pushed and left to bleed. Blankets of darkness and silence surround her. She is hoping someone is going to pull her up, turn on the lights and play the music again. Bandage her wounds and help remove all old scars. She sits still… Hoping, praying, wondering when this will end, when the dance floor will be lit again, and laughter will ring out again. She is waiting… Her view is so blurred by tears, that what she doesn’t realise is that people are holding out their hands towards her. Waiting to pull her up again, waiting to help her dance again, waiting to dance with her again… Even if she notices them, she is scared, scared she’ll be pushed again, wounded again, left alone again. This is not new to her, this has happened before… They say it’s a part of life, but she is tired of it. It has drained her, left her exhausted… But… she misses her body swaying to the beats and her mind singing along with the music. She hates being on the floor, cold and alone… hates being surrounded by darkness and silence. So she’ll slowly pull herself, stronger than before, stronger than she was before she hit the ground… and she’ll move towards the lights and turn them on herself, and move towards the sound box and turn the volume up and it’ll hurt her feet to start over and she’ll be scared to fall again, but she’ll do it over, start it over… She’ll let go of all old wounds but remember the lessons they taught, and she learn to hold hands again and dance with people next to her… Pushing away the fear that they’ll push her down and leave her to bleed again… And this time, with every bit if strength she has, with every bit of hope she has, she sway to beats and her mind will sing along the words and she’ll go to the middle of her dance floor, where her heart belongs, and she’ll do what she loves, she won’t hold back… She’ll let herself go and she’ll dance again…

That Girl…

I am that girl, you see in the corridor, head bent, hair disheveled. That girl, who you think you know everything about, the one you think has nothing much about her, and yet… the one you know nothing about. That girl, the one whose name you are not completely sure about, the one who you associate with ‘nerd’, the one who, with your nose in the air, you call.. what’s that you say? ‘Teacher’s Pet’. Sometimes, she is too clingy, sometimes she is too zoned out, sometimes she is too emotional, sometimes she is too sensitive. She is always too much of something. You don’t really talk about her though, just when she is mentioned to you recall her, “Oh that girl… she is too…” Always too much of something. You don’t care for her, but you know her weakness, that girl… she cares too much. About everyone, about everything. You don’t remember her name, you don’t know her, but you know that girl… you can call her when you need her. Only when you need her…When your mornings reveal a tear stained pillow or your fast approaching deadlines are building up the pressure, that’s when you need her… That girl, she’ll stay up the night to complete your work, so you sleep your beauty sleep at night. That girl… she’ll not leave you till she has wiped your tears and fixed your broken story. That girl… what about her story? Who is going to fix that? Who is going to hear her out when you trample her heart and leave her vulnerable and lonely? When she looks at you, and slowly her trust in everything and everyone, fades away into nothing. And yet she’ll do it all over again, wipe fresh tears and meet new deadline, for you… all for you…while the same old tears decorate her lashes another night and the same old fears grip her fast and the same old loneliness leaves that girl broken, again…
That girl…the one in the corridor, head bent, hair disheveled. That girl…you don’t really remember her, till you need her to pick up the pieces that you leave behind…