We’re encouraged to silence ourselves, but
I am never as loud as I think I am. His glance
does not exist. The ache below my ribcage, neither.
The tiny light bulbs in my teeth are crowns
of fury, of pinnacle, of laurels allowed to laud
any man who wouldn’t immediately collapse
my movie with his fist. Walking around like this
is like walking around without knowing
how the electricity bill gets paid or where
the theater kids go to get high. Preposterous.
We already know the booth is at the back
of my throat. We already know what belongs
there. All we really need is a man who knows
where the switch is, a man who will leave
it running when he goes, that’ll lay me
down and let the light cascade out of me,
gasping like the audience we know better
than to let watch. The curtains, please.
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