Look at her. Just look at her.

Her adagio is too fast, too sloppy. Her feet entangle in pointe. When she stands, she has the aplomb of a stork. And when she moves, she is neither a swan nor a dolphin—she has the graciousness of a whale.

She is not a dancer.

Her figure does not belong to a ballerina. She has too much derriere to do her arriére right and so much breast she might fall on her face in her avant.

She is not a dancer.

Yet everyone is in awe because of her. Can they not see what I see?
There! She just relaxed her leg in the middle of that arabesque. No good. How can she be the star dancer of the company?

Again! She missed the music cue to land her assemblé! Again!

I could do so much better than that.

Dancing. Dancing is life. Dancing is my life. And she is ruining it with what she is doing.

Half spins, not fuettés. Lazy sprints, not frappés. Crooked arches, not pliés.
Was that a balancé?

She is not a dancer.

Hers is not ballet. It is not even decent gymnastics. Her battements are just jerks. She convulses on top of the stage.

She is not a dancer.

Why do the other ballerinas admire her? Why do they applaud when she finishes? I clap because the crime is finished.

I hear their applause and I must focus so that I do not burst out laughing. Or crying. I want to cry when the others cheer for the murder of dancing.

She is not a dancer.

I am the dancer. I am a ballerina.

I must beat her. She does not deserve to be the star.

The music stops. But she does not.

The lights go out. But she does not.

She remains in the dark, grabbing to the bar, practicing her echappé and her en croix. Her heavy breathing serves as lead music to her performance in the dark.

She is not a dancer. Though, she will be the star on the stage.

I hate her. Do others not see what I see in her?

She is not a dancer. She is not even a girl. She is just a lonely reflection on the mirror of the practice room.

She is not dancing. I am dancing.

Look at her. Just look at her.