I loved you from afar for so long.
I first saw you on stage at The Nutcracker, and immediately I wanted to be in your arms. I was so young then, a child — far too young for this kind of love — and you were already older than I realized, but I had no thought to our age difference. You had the ability to sweep me off of my feet and carry me away from all my troubles, and that’s all I cared about.
But you knew I was too young. You were kind to me, but made no demands, and when I left you to pursue other pastimes, you let me go.
I was 16 when I thought I was ready to pursue you. I was barely a woman, limber and energetic, but I knew that was the kind of girl you liked. So I went for it.
That was before I found out how cruel you could be.
First it was my weight. If I was serious about you, I’d have to lose the weight, you said. And then, when I didn’t do what you asked, you hurt me.
The punishment started with little things. A sprained ankle here and there. I wasn’t too bright, you see. I didn’t know exactly what you wanted me to do. But the day you pushed me down in front of my entire jazz class and dislocated my knee, I started to get the message.
After that incident, you and I parted ways for a while. I healed, but not completely. We met again that year after college, when we both worked at Busch Gardens. I was more mature, a little more savvy, but I couldn’t help but fall back in love with you. We danced the tarantella every day. When we were together, I felt exhilarated. Beautiful. Graceful.
But I still wasn’t good enough for you. I saw you with those other girls, those younger girls, those prettier girls. You had plenty of pas de deux to dance with them, and I got jealous.
We had fought that morning, you and I. During our warm-ups, you threatened to hurt me again. I ignored you. I didn’t think you would possibly do it again.
But you did.
It was the last show of the day. I was exhausted and sweating under that hot sun, and we danced one last tarantella. I made a turn, and you pushed my knee out of place. The same knee that you dislocated before. I collapsed, screaming, on the stage. And suddenly, you were nowhere to be found.
A few days later, at a follow-up visit with my doctor, he told me that the muscles around my knee, because of the repeated injury, were intrinsically weak. I went through physical therapy to get back to baseline, but I would have to continue to maintain my leg muscles for the rest of my life if I wanted to not dislocate my knee a third time.
That’s when I knew you had broken me in a way nobody could fix.
That’s when I realized you and I were never really a good fit.
But you, Dance (Terpsichore, Nataraja, Cernunnos, or whatever you wish to be called), you are a bigger dream than I could ever hope to catch. I still love you…I always will. But I will love you from afar, watching you leap and promenade with my dancer friends, the ones who are strong enough to stay with you.
I know you still love me, too, in your way. I see you in the eyes of my waltz partner. I hear your heartbeat in the rhythm of the songs I sing. But I stay on the safe side of your love now, because I am afraid of what you might do to me if I wander too close to your brilliance.
Write an uncensored letter to the one person that broke you in ways no-one would ever be able to fix.
I hope FlamingNyx can forgive me for taking a little bit of artistic license, since Dance is not technically one person. Everything else about the story is true, however.