When they tell me to dance

graceful filigree, I wanted to be beautiful like them
but when I tried to dance, they chanted

posture, posture, posture

I am a wobbly skyscraper ready to fall
among a world of mini glass villas

they are tiny rosettes in full bloom
stems arcing upright, princess petals flushed
with prim smiles and sleek hair like oil

and I, the errant ugly palm tree
whose dry leaves are stubborn in nature
the frothy pink tulle looks ridiculous,
out of place, against my lanky trunk

the harsh voice of the teacher punctuates my name
all wrong, all wrong, all wrong
the smack on my rump doesn't sting, but
the disapproval behind it aches

too old to be cute,
too clumsy to be elegant

and when they ask us to split ourselves
open, triumphant smiles in the mirror
I stumble, still attempting to shrink myself
sweaty bar in hand, 
wrinkled against their peachy youth

the swan's feathers unfurl, delicate lilting melodies
I palm the beat and am dragged behind every note
the shriveled brown against pale white

and when my nails tire from being filled with filth
clawing to be even the mud of their tiny toes

the music plays, they bloom, I walk away
for years, their smirks and voices haunt me
swans and tulle, mascara and eyeshadow
avoiding all the reminders, the proof that I

gave up, gave up, gave up

so now, when they tell me to dance
I tell them I don't know how