I hide behind the veil of anonymity,

uncovering just enough

to feel exposed –

baring breasts, hips, a facial silhouette –

yet holding back just enough

to feel safe.

It’s a bizarre balance of

telling secrets and keeping them,

flirting with discovery,

and fearing it.

I cannot tell you

my name,

but I can tell you

how I fucked him.

I can tell you

what I felt as he held me


You cannot see the pulsing of

my heart in my wrists,

the blue veins twitching with

life beneath pale flesh.

But you know that I like it


and that I melt when he says

good girl.

You wait just outside the curtain that divides

one real me

from the other.

You get the dirty half,


Lust-drunk, I find you

in the evening hours.

I put on my silk robe and stage make-up

(or don’t),

and cross the weathered platform,

alone: looking out

at a partially filled auditorium.

My voice echos against

the empty velvet chairs,

the acoustics of this digital stage

amplifying my whispers to reverberating crescendos of

blossoming prose and filthy admissions.

You watch me

as I sit in front of you,

straddling a worn wooden chair,

legs spread against the filigreed chair back,

my cunt wet against the vinyl seat,

spewing honesty and fiction like promises I mean to keep.

You are my darlings.

My lovers.

I peel myself open to you,

my monologue spoken under spotlight;

and when I am most uncomfortable,

I look up

into the blinding whiteness.

But there are times,

when I look you in the eyes,

lick my lips,

and pray that you will see past the powder and costume

before the curtain closes.


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