I am not the car I drive, nor am I the house I live in.
I am not the music I listen to or the films I watch.
I am not the clothes I wear.
I am not the phone I use.
I am not the television I watch, nor am I the books I read.
Dance to be adored.
Dance to make them love you.
To fill the void, to feel real.
Dance jewellery box ballerina.
Miss Her and I rush to start the show,
Taking seconds growing up
listen to a midnight joke,
Her; My doubts, insecurities, my rage/frustrations, my impotence, my complete submissive willingness to change/forgo everything I am just to please.
My belief that Her knows what is right in the world and, because of my past transgressions, I should follow Her blindly. Without question; lest I become a bastard again…
Her makes me feel wracked with thought. Must think.
Must think! Don’t react!
A sharply dressed man with a copy of “Uncut” leaves his table to make his way to the bathroom while a table full of tattooed men and eager women laugh effortlessly at an unheard joke… A businessman shifts awkwardly in his skin as he orders another wine… Two less than subtle women in skirts far too short talk far too loudly about an unfortunate, unseen man… A flock of schoolgirls move aside to let a man wearing shabby clothing move through their throng, then giggle malevolently amongst themselves…
The city stoically ignores the commotion.