Being Sally meant having those long and supple hands.
Being Sally meant having wonderfully lustrous hair.
Being Sally meant moving gracefully.
Being Sally meant playing with fire, yes.
Being Sally meant entertaining all those who thought playing with fire was entertaining.
But no one ever asked what being Sally actually meant to her.
All everyone bothered about was the beautiful dancer who danced with fire.
She was enticing, she was engaging, she was alluring, she was entertaining.
But for her, she was no more than a circus lion on display. Someone everyone was afraid to get close to but everyone wanted to see on display. She was that clown everyone wanted to look at and feel good about being themselves. She was that object that men devoured by their looks and women went green with envy. Yet no one ever dared to get close to her.
She often wondered if she really loved playing with fire. She often wondered if it was really worth being a fire dancer.
She got frustrated and irritated and mad at the whole world and blamed everything and anything under the sun for her predicament. Until the pay-day arrived. Then she would glance at her cheque and she would think everything is fine with the world.
Being Sally is not that bad after all, she would think.
Being Sally is just her attempt to show the world that she could play with fire. The one within her. And the one around her.