With abandon and grace

I move—
not for punishment,
not for perfection,
but because I can.

Because my legs remember
the ache of stillness.
Because freedom lives
in the sway of hips,
in the stretch of fingertips
toward sky.

This body—
what a gift.
Not always painless,
but always mine.
A vessel of sweat and spirit,
a temple rebuilt
each time I choose to dance,
to walk,
to run toward joy
instead of away from it.

I move
because I get to.
Because I’m here.
Because not everyone gets to feel
this fire
in their limbs.

And when I do—
when I let go
and lose myself in motion—
it feels like prayer.
Like praise.
Like pure,
unapologetic
life.