Angel

The ballerina takes one final gaze in the looking glass. In the dim, flickering bulbs that frame her mirror, her skin is silvery and shimmers like a fish. Her blond hair looks darker, but the wispy strands of gold that have strayed from her neat tuck of a bun float upwards like she is flowing with electricity. In truth, she is. Adrenaline and longing to dance are beading, pearly on her skin . Its almost like she has been dipped in moonshine, and she longs for nothing more than to step out on the even black floor, and fill it with a swirl of gold and silver, like ink in water, like lightning at midnight, like a twinkle in an eye. She smooths the folds of her glittering dress, the richest shade of scarlet, shimmering like scales, scarred with cracked, raw gold and light. To her, this dress is her wings, and tonight she will fly.

She picks up the powder puff from in between bottles of hairspray and perfume, and brushes a little more on her collar bones. Now, her entire body sparkles with dazzling flakes of coppery glitter, and she shines like some almighty being... Perhaps a fallen angel that has so much grace, she has never fallen after that.

She breathes, as before, and stands up straight.

Time to fly.