I was a dancer.

Sleek, beautiful, full of grace and
determination.
Turning slowly, like a window display,
poised on toe.
Like the little ballerina that
always pops up
in your little music boxes,
twirling
endlessly to the tiny music.

I was a dancer.

Rewarded in life with the gift
of refinement.
The gift of dance.
Musicals,
scholarships,
auditions.
I had it all.

I was a dancer.

I thought I was beyond
reach.
Invincible.
Invulnerable.
I was wrong.
Coming home
from yet another musical,
my best performance yet.
It all changed.

I was a dancer.

My friends and I
laughing,
talking,
taking risks.
High on drugs,
and not on dance.
Swerving,
screeching tires,
breaking glass,
painful endless
screams.
Black.

I was a dancer.

Sitting.
Sulking.
Motionless.
I was a dancer, I tell you.
A dancer.

But wheelchairs dont dance.
And no longer do I.

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