Choreography of Alarm

I step into my own skin like a dancer onto broken glass  

my heartbeat drums a frantic tango—too loud to ignore  

yet I move through the room with the grace of someone lost  

in a waltz where every note is a warning siren.

In my mind’s ballroom the chandeliers shiver with fear  

and I spin on a floor strewn with yesterday’s regrets  

my arms arc in a jittery jive—each pulse rehearsed  

to dodge the next invisible blow.

They call it calm, these quiet mornings I pretend to taste  

but my muscles still echo a military march  

my ribs clamor for the next breath like a drum solo  

and my thoughts pirouette between “safe” and “soon-to-break.”

I’m a ballerina balancing on frayed nerves,  

lacing urgency into every muscle—  

a marionette on strings of “what if,”  

forced to master a choreography of constant alarm.

Even when the music softens to a lullaby  

my body stays wired for the crescendo—  

eyes scanning for shadows in the corners  

feet tapping out a fear-driven rhythm.

But tonight I stand center stage and learn a new step:  

to breathe in time with silence, to slow my frantic pirouette,  

to let my trembling limbs trust the hush between beats—  

to find a safety I’ve never known,  

and dance, finally, to my own steady heartbeat.