This article is written by a student writer from the Her Campus at Utah chapter.
Dauntingly, it challenges
Five feet high
In the air.
The firm surface
Quickens my heart.
My hands grace the hoop,
The curves stiff to the touch.
A straddle mount gets me up
Into position I go.
Facing towards the apparatus,
I move the hoop swiftly between my bum.
It hurts and it strains
The lyra molding with my back.
Fancy this?
I think not,
As I dismount.
Red and purple,
Blacken behind my knees,
Up my back.
Hands sore and used,
Straining to even make a fist.
A beautiful art that is not for me,
I’ll leave it be.