Glitter smeared collar bones, holographic sweat annexing
a chest tumbling inside a sequin tank top: Smizing,
Shimmering, swooning, swaying in and out.
Whispers slice beneath the bass:
“Not even skin that sparkles should be shown, You Lilith.
You lady of the night, dancing like no one can see you.
Who do you think you are?”
But I recognize you. I notice. I see how apple juice drips
from your lips, as you jive, melancholy to some
atrocious, brain dead, pop-culture track.
Lost inside your head. Faking your best. Acting
like it’s 1969 and bars still have disco balls
hanging from the ceiling.
I want to ask you where you go,
but I know you’d never admit it.
It’s okay, I get it:
The dance floor is a piranha exhibit.
We glimmer, unfeeling. We know
why we bite back. Nothing matters much,
at the end of every night,
we know better than to forget that.
Photo by Rafael Hoyos Weht on Unsplash
