As a ballerina, I spend hours every day in front of the mirror. I practice every step, movement, gesture over and over and over until perfection. I refuse to be flawed. 

I’m revered in the dance studio as the best technical dancer. Superb pirouettes, battements, fouettés, rond de jambs. I reach further with every developé. 

But I see their stares. The glares. The judgments. I stare at the mirror with the rest of them. I can compare and contrast what I see. The differences between them and me. Their small bodies, accentuated by the skin-tight leotards, and their faces with only one chin displayed as their hair is smoothed into a high bun. 

Then I look at me. Every roll spotlighted as the leotard stretches over it. The leotard that doesn’t fit. They don’t make sizes for girls like me. I can see every calorie I ate that day sitting on my hips, in my thighs, under my chin. 

My working and training for naught as I will never be as good as the others due to how I look. I will never be treated the same. I will never be a real ballerina. 

The girls tell me a trick some of them use to maintain their shape. Sticking their fingers down their throats. It doesn’t matter how much they eat if they never digest it. I don’t want to give in. But I feel as if I have no choice.

On my knees, pointe shoes still on, the toilet in front of me. A tear rolls down my oversized face as I raise my fingers to my lips.