These days I long for the times we drank for hours getting dolled to the nines in between shots and dance moves. Weaving our way in and around bodies dark and in shadows, prowling. We were the big cats, the ones they keep in cages for tourists to gawk at. The ones they fling whole carcasses towards, to be devoured. Soul searching eyes and manes longer than the Nile. Stopping grown men in their paths with a single glance. I dream of the nights we could have talked our way out of cop cars and into furry handcuffs with a twist of the tongue. We would twirl boys around like tops, wrapped in dorm room sheets. Winking and taking them out in the morning like black bags of trash, one after the other. Blowing smoke out our windows and giggling, our own secret language. Setting fire to our own bridges and dousing the flames in tears and liqour. We were the biggest game, hunters being hunted, dying to be laid out like skinned rugs and ravaged like last meals. In the end, like lazy zoo lions we were left with nothing but the shadows of the Queens of the Jungle we used to be. Licking our wounds and cleaning our paws in the sunlight as the world goes on without us.