Your Ballerina Poem by Za7ra Sulaiman

He used to say I looked like a ballerina when I walked away from him.
Not when I arrived, not when I laughed, not when I cried,
only when I walked away.
As if distance gave me grace.

There was a mirror in his room. Long, cracked at the bottom.
I used to stand in front of it when he wasn't looking,
lifting one leg ever so slightly off the floor,
trying to see if I could still look like art when no one applauded.
He never noticed.
But I think the mirror did.

He said my lipstick tasted like trouble.
Said I made him feel like a man.
But he kissed me like a boy.
A scared one. One who knew he was holding something fragile
and didn't know what to do with it.

I left a silk ribbon under his bed.
It was red.
He didn't find it until months after I was gone,
and when he did, he posted a picture of it on his story,
no caption.
But I knew it was for me.
I could feel it.
Some women know when they're being missed.

He loved me like I was a secret.
He never said I was beautiful in front of other people,
but he stared at me like I was burning.
Like he was afraid of what I'd do if I danced too long in one place.
So I didn't.
I twirled just long enough to make him dizzy.

I told his friend I wanted to be a ghost someday.
He laughed. Said I already moved like one.
I don't think it was meant as an insult.
Some people leave footprints.
I left perfume.

There was one night.
he was drunk, or sad, or both?
and he said, "I think I ruined you."
I kissed his collarbone and whispered,
"No, love. I was never whole to begin with."
Then I left.

He dreams about me now.
I know because I wake up some nights
feeling like someone just whispered my name.

Maybe I still dance in his memory.
Maybe I still wear that ribbon.
Maybe I'm still in his mirror,
spinning quietly,
just a pretty little thing
waiting to be missed.


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