dancer's feet

i have danced five times in my life: girl scouts, prom, by the river at night with a bottle of beer in one hand and a boy's hand on my hips and a girl pressed against my back. the last two, my wedding and a ballroom class. I have always had a dancer's feet, bruised and blistered, purple under the skin on the sides, bleeding from the heel and the ankle. like swan lake i have spent my life on tiptoe, attempting grace that has never come easily. my arch falls flat. so do my apologies and i force my feet into something that no longer fits. i have spent my whole life like cinderella like her sisters, cutting off toes and heels to fit into something i don't want but i was promised. i dance a sixth time, around the truth, swaying in your arms in an airport. there's no music and my feet are bloodied, crushed into too tight shoes and arched into heels. at this height, we see eye to eye for the first time.