Correctional Choreography poem
It’s a place I feel off—
not wedded to anything.
Truculent.
I think in riddles
and answer in metaphors.
I dance on my tiptoes—
an adagio of agony.
Passion pirouettes
out of sight.
Tethered.
Bound by grief.
Temptation forgotten,
tempered.
It no longer exists.
It was a pas de deux,
now it’s just a deuce—
a petulant penitent,
an unwanted pardon.
The dancer stirs.
The pulse quickens
to a tango.
Recalcitrant and longing.
Unable to follow the white line
unless it’s condemned.
So the path ahead is delusional—
felt, not seen.
When will the blocks of life
build up
and make me feel safe?
I feel like I’m
in a correctional facility.
I am my own door.
I am my own jailor.
I realise I have the key.
I bury it
under the pile of shame
in the corner.
Copyright © Gabrielle Munslow | Year Posted 2025
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