the end of ostrich syndrome

In the moment, I'm dancing and
my legs are burning and
my blood is pumping and
I can taste the wind as it enters and exits my mouth like
a soft pink ribbon.
It's slightly sweet and
it lingers for a few moments on my lips.

I'm making it, I cry!
I'm making the wind!

But then I turn with too much vigor and I fall violently to the floor, and I'm hammered with the cold, hardwood fact that I'm just some girl alone in a white bloodless room, dancing pathetically to songs she doesn't even like.
And my lips are stained red; the dry heat of the room made them chapped and raw.

I have no partner, and no rhythm, just thin clumsy feet that trip on my:
knobby knees and
bony ankles that
look like those of an ostrich.

And then I pick myself up off the floor and turn off the noise, just to
bury my head in the sand. And
I feel so fucking stupid for thinking I could ever really dance to begin with.
A tiny red globule falls from my lips and onto my pale and worthless feet, and
I hate them and feel so heavy and so bound.

The word "good bye" exits my body with almost too much ease and
the soft and bloody 'b' evaporates quickly into the ether, punctuated by the gentle click of the white door. It's a pretty sound, and
delicate and
almost
brightly hopeless

and that light final click is the start of a new, more honest song.