The End

• Emily Rogers, Grade 10
• Poetry
• 2011

The insistent screech of instructions from the mistress is blinding you,

The insistent screech from the mistress is blinding you,
From somewhere in this room full of crisp-thin girls in pink.
The music insists you move to the metre,
And though you cannot interpret the music over the shrieking,
You twirl,
Swirl,
And pirouette,
Until you crumple down from pointe to the bruising floor.
There is a tingling so odd in one limb of your tutu clad body
Which with a perceptible pop, becomes agonizing pain.
And still the squawking and music continues
For the show must go on.
But this is one show which must end,
One mistress which must see her own error correct it,
While you must wheel your way to the emergency room,
And out of the destructive world of ballet.