Disclaimer – I don't own Black Swan. Visceral/sexual/stylized writing is my forte. I wrote this while listening to the movie's soundtrack on my PS3 and Radiohead's latest album, The King of Limbs, simultaneously on my laptop. The harmony blew my mind.

Reviews are welcome.

bloom. natural. embrace, accept.

White swans have no say in the matter—Nina must flourish, soon. Her dream, her spotlight, is photosynthesis.

Nina is poised, blossoming her wings. Desire poisons her capacity for error. What she cannot see is the venom. She takes a slow breath, all-encompassing, and it stings her chest. Her obsession is manifest in this hallucination of night. Night encloses her; the light follows. The light holds her hands, her arms, her legs. Light pivots her feet, maintains her head steady as she turns.

Luminescence reigns supreme. It plays her, strings her; threads Nina as it wishes. Darkness shape-shifts into her fears. Her innocence stitches to the ground—the roots of issue. She doesn't notice.

To be a queen requires sacrifice. A sacrifice she understands not, and is content to ignore. Oblivious to the threats of oblivion in such talent, Nina dances. Wide is the expanse of her endowments. Optimism is not her ignorance. Blindness. Blinded by the light forever guiding her. Confusion is manifest in the vines veining from the stitches, finding her. An avian of dark looms, following her. Its presence is marked erroneous. A demon, haunting—not a lesson, nor amnesty for Nina's purity. Virgin misapprehension.

Concentration grows dull beneath the cone of light. A better alternative: shape the light, shape the dark, and run loose. Ignore the threat, ignore the threat. Nina can't ignore what she feels is her downfall. Downfall is as much destruction as rise is restoration—she knows better. The threat is an illusion. This is but a dream, a requiem, a dream; a mass, a funeral. Later, déjà vu.

Nina does not stop. The growth is immaculate, she feels, so tangible. Running away is not the same as solace. They cannot compare. She continues, she concentrates, she consecrates her will through her fear. The rising is not in the form of a sun, but a looming night that never retreats. Forever approaching, just as the black swan does. It won't stop. It can't. Can't. Won't. Alone, she cannot conquer. Alone, she is Nina.

Nina is afraid. The recession is messy, she sees, so real. Her reverie routine falters. She has no control. She dances away from what she needs. She leaves what she needs. Leaves it, abandons it. She wants something to save her—her own skill cannot. Embracing this menace is beyond her. She can't, she won't. She follows it following her. Nina does not remember how it feels to float along in the ambiguity of imagined and genuine. Static is heavy in her eyes, in her steps, her movements. Heavy; ominous.

The black swan shadows Nina. Shadows her, shadows her, shadows, shadows, shadows; follows, follows, following; swallowing, swallowing, swallow; wallow she does, wallow she does.

Miscommunication, miscommunication, miss communication. Audible range: zero. Misconstruction, misconstruction, miss construction. She cannot tell her body to repair the damage its done to her expectations.

Fear is happenstance: her faltering stance. Grace is as fluid as a rain of nails, as the light shining down on Nina, following her. The climax is sudden and sharp, the ache in her limbs steep and soaring. Reality returns, waking her.