There’s something so grotesquely thrilling about the unknowing being a dance. As an art form dance is uncomfortable, painful, and even causes lasting damage to the dancer; but above all it is something that MUST be beautiful.

“I just want you to join me for a dance!”

Such an innocent statement, even if you know that it isn’t.

To think of a partner dance: Perhaps a waltz where your partner is much taller than you, their position forcing your arms out of their sockets as you struggle to keep your form.

A solo dance? Ballet without training, elegant poses that stretch your tendons til they snap; pointe work without shoes, the weight of your body crushing the bones in your feet.

Or musical theatre! Your body moves at a pace you can’t control as your throat grows hoarse from singing louder than you ever should. A smile (or perhaps a grimace) plastered painfully on your face.

What about contemporary? Your soft unprepared body meeting the harsh ground from a leap that ended too soon; something tears inside you as you draw yourself up gracefully in a way you wouldn’t think possible.

The pure raw confusion of your body doing something you never allowed it to know how to do. What is this body? What is this movement? What shape am I being twisted into?

“so effortless!” an onlooker exclaims, as another bone snaps.

You’d scream, but the punishment for not smiling is worse than this pain.

The harsh gaze of dead, automaton eyes watches you from the wings, judging and critiquing. It’s not good enough, your performance wasn’t perfect; but if you’re lucky you won’t live long enough to hear the feedback. You wouldn’t understand it anyways.