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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