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She is a dancer.
Her hips don’t lie and everyone knows it.
A woman’s body in motion is mesmerizing
And dangerous?

Dangerous to the man who thinks he owns her,
Strong hands her with possessiveness.
He is a trembling boy inside,
Afraid he might crumble if her dance with another gets too steamy.

He thinks she is a slut, out to cheat on him.
But he doesn’t understand that her dance isn’t for him,
Was never for him,
And it isn’t for any one of them who aim their sexual delight her way.
Her dance is for her.
It’s for how it brings her alive,
her hips a cauldron of red power churning,
and dissolves her whole body into atoms swirling in the air.
She doesn’t even notice that one’s lustful stare
Or his jealous bid for control.
Her heart just exploded into one thousand prisms of bliss,
into waves of dancing particles all about the studio.
There is no longer a “her” to notice these things.
She is gone.
There is just a whirlwind.

One cannot own the wind.
She is wild and free.
She cannot be grasped or contained.
The wind knows no shame.
No man,
In all time,
Will stop the wind from having its dance.