It was sexy in the spotlight of that dingy, quiet dive.
She was way overqualified for her line of work, but she didn’t think so.
Performance, Dharma, and sex (work), these threads wove around her, intersecting in her body, which she showed. She was the crossroad.
She didn’t need a degree to get naked, but she had one.
She moved to the music coming in unsteady, sometimes loud.
More often than not she wasn’t sober, but she was taking notes.
Red light. Eye contact. Transcendence. Razor burn. Bruises. Eye liner.
Even on her days off she had long hair with at least five different colors swirling though it. She made pinks and purples look natural. Glitter fell out of her pockets.
At the wedding she made a speech about a lineage of awakened hearts, led a warrior cry. She wore pearls, like she loved. She congratulated the brides and thought about fearlessness and culture and change. To some people she mentioned what she “did.” To others she just smiled and remained a little odd, a little anonymous, like the pseudonym she gave at work only…opposite. Which was more true, she wondered.
We build boundaries to help us be strong, but what are we protecting? Who is this I? Who is this we? We wear rings on our fingers and lock the doors to our hearts, all we think we have gained. We show our souls and then run when we are seen.
At night she scribbled furiously, making up stories about what could be. She built wild worlds with her words that were really mirrors. The stories were her own. They were made out of her body, out of her mind, no less true because they were fantasies.
No less true than She.
