My Ballet Shoes

Worn and torn,
scuffed and stained,
ripped from complex footwork.

Creased and squashed,
Threads hang down,
from what was once pristine and new.

Filthy and smelly,
In the studio, they sweep the floor clean.
The underside covered in glitter and dust.

My name scribbled on the inside,
Black permanent marker bleeds through the fine cotton.
fEliCitY

When they slip onto my feet,
the stains disappear.
The pain no longer shows.

I run my finger
Down the soft malleable leather.
Rough, but soft and flexible all at the same very time.

A beautiful connection,
could never be broken.
Grasping onto the memories forever.