I bury my head in the dirt. They’ll never know me.
I won’t let them.
Sprawled out on the cramped bathroom floor,
Backless lace dress, flushed alabaster skin
Voluminous hair flowing wildly, five inch platform heels
Cheek inches away from pressing against the toilet seat
Spit and bile hanging from my red stained lips,
Hot tears rising, burning from the purge
He looked down at me and said “You look like a model”.
I was in college. But I had no applicable skills for a real job.
A humourless joke riddled with debt.
I got a gig as a go-go dancer at a fetish club.
A flesh theater.
I would ooze sex for entertainment’s sake, but I wouldn’t be having any.
Just cash and drinks please.
They wanted me to smack them with paddles and whips. Kick them in the balls. Electrostimulation.
I giggled with delight.
The floor cleared out for me to dance solo. Entice.
Lingerie and glamour heels.
DJ played “Silver Screen” by Felix da Housecat.
My body segmented each note into a fluid motion.
I became a beacon of energy.
The world fell away.
I desired the mask. I was in love with your smokescreen. I ate your hell fire.
I thought I could achieve greatness being with you.
I kept finding you in others. I chased you. Relentlessly.
I was consumed by the intensity, immersed in entropy.
My heart was demolished. I believed in sugar coated lies.
I was desperate to hold onto some semblance of beauty within chaos.
I let it shove me against a wall. I let it shame me in front of others. I let it keep painful secrets. I let it take control.
I dusted myself off and went back. Not just to you.
I wondered why they were so fickle. Why the situation was always so fucked. Why the timing was never right.
My anxiety conquered reality. My fears, my hopelessness, they manifested into a palpable darkness.
Insufferable, hovering like a gloomy cloud over my head.
I hated men.
I hated women.
I hated happy couples.
I hated me.