Cinder is always dying.

She rolls away from the rest of us,
her neat waist studded with
pearls the color of ash, her
delicate feet splayed
in the hopes that she can hold on
just a little bit more.

She is dying even when the flames are bright
windows around dancing princes
and princesses glowing red
and orange
and yellow. She dies
while we pirouette
to the music
of her burning.

Cinder falls away, away
onto brick, over iron,
crusted, corroded,
her feet crumble as the fire
leaves her, her footsteps a trail of ash
at midnight.

While Cinder falls, her sister stands
at the window
and watches.

Ember burning bright, her gown
rash red, her hair licked purple with heat.
She blinks her blue eyes slowly
as she accepts her sister’s
defeat.

Cinder screams as she rolls,
her white dress
fading grey,
lace crumbling to dust.

When she finally hits the bottom
her head smacks down
hard, charcoal hair smearing the ground
black.

Ember doesn’t cry.
Her face is dry,
flames tucked neatly
behind her ears.

We let the ball continue after Cinder’s fall.

She was not one of us,
dressed as she was in colorless clothes.
She was
too skinny, too round.
How did she expect to stand?
How could she expect not to fall?

Her dress was patched from dreams and delusions,
her hair nothing like ours. She was an outsider,
gifted but naïve.

Ember stands at the window until the last light
fades from Cinder’s body.
We keep going,
twirling over the coals, our feet stained
black
by the ground
as we dance.