They told me to dance. Said I didn't have a choice. So I moved until my feet were caloussed with raw wounds; until blood was the only thing that felt good on my barefeet. And when I stopped, my feet no longer able to listen, I sat down in the dirt head in my hands. A throbbing ran through me, like a drunkards ache for a simple sip of booze. It existed somewhere other than just my toes; my heart made music on my chest as it pumped anger and disgust past my ribs. But instead of lashing out - instead of giving them what they wanted - I used the beats my body was creating.

At that moment I got up and I danced. But what they saw and what they felt was far different from the previous. It was rich, heartfelt. My muscles moved with the freedom of liberation and rebellion. It was my creation that made the burns disappear. It was my movement that made them see that I was not a failure. My gift. My life. My decisions.


They told me to dance. I should have never listened.