In ballet classes
I would get too dizzy
and stand in the corner
chewing on the tulle
of my red fairy dress.
Now I perform
in the same way
alchemise through distilling,
breaking things down
to their simplest parts.
To the rigid nature
of my skirt, even as I twisted
my mind around itself,
to its stillness,
to the taste of mesh
and the bitter sting
of my dance teacher’s raised voice.
Chrysopoeia. The blood becomes gold.
Always the same. Always
metallic, always
reminding me of the teenage
urge to become inside-out.
To complicate things.
That is why
I alchemise by distilling.
Breaking myself down
is wrong
splitting skin cells apart is
wrong
kissing girls is wrong chewing
the red tulle until my tongue
is raw is wrong—but;
when it all goes still—
chrysopoeia. Hold my hand as it hardens.
Featured image supplied by author.
