Since childhood, I had a complex—my legs.
Even though I ran through the neighborhood,
through the techno district, the park, and Chekhov’s little house,
through the abandoned dairy factory,
climbed over the fence into the Fairy Tale Glade,
held my own in a game of tag,
I could change direction in an instant,
unexpectedly for whoever was chasing me.
Reaching out my hand, I’d glide away.

But that never stopped people from saying,
“God, you’re so skinny. Look at those legs.”
I hated summer—
not because of the heat, but because of the shorts.
Summer meant the boat beach, the green zone.
I could dive like a coffin, like a bomb,
sending up decent splashes.
The entrance near the boat station cost 3 hryvnias,
yet the local spot was free.
And there was a café nearby with music.
I remember they played The Doors.

I was 22, and I lived with those who didn’t love me.
I twisted the same ankle 4 times in 6 months.
December 21, 2012.
I tore my ligaments.
End of the world.

I had only started breakdancing a couple of months before,
had just learned the splits.
And then—on the snow, I nailed it.
The guys carried me under their arms.

I twisted my left ankle four times
because I wasn’t listening to it.
I was supposed to run—
but I turned back.

The fourth time was the scariest—
on flat ground, for no reason.
I thought I’d broken it.
The pain was endless.
Night. Emptiness.
The first trolleybus.
I barely made it,
leaning on a stick for support.

“Conductor, sorry, I have no money. Just one stop.”
“****, man.”

But everything healed.
It didn’t hurt anymore.
I never went to a doctor.

I kept twisting my ankle,
even on even ground.
I kept going.
In the end, everything hurt.
I felt broken—
then put back together.

Maybe that’s what being a b-boy means to me.

And my legs?
They only became full
once they hit the road.