morphing

i crawl into the familiar
accoutrements, high
high heels strapped
to my feet.
on the stage it’s the customers’
fierce stares that strip me,
not of clothing, but
respect. they
show contempt on their faces,
take in the sights but
leave my stage bare, so
i don’t get undressed.
i am already naked –
sure they can feel my
utter loathing
just as surely as i can feel
their condescension
that sense of entitlement
where they believe
my time is not
worthy, as if it is free.
i pay myself in small
revenges, “accidentally”
kick their legs,
when they sit beside me,
trying to
take me in.
at night, i go home
wash the rude eyes
off of me, and remember
the good ones – the
boy who touched me as if
something sacred
and i start to relearn
the goodness of people.
i do.
in the morning, dragging
myself to the shower,
i hold this in my mind.
i go back to the club.
i go inside.