The Life of a Showgirl

Glitter is just dust
that learned to beg for attention.

The crowd loves the fire,
not the girl breathing the smoke.

I’ve bled in gowns worth more than rent.
Showgirls don’t sleep,
we just step out of view.

I bow so low the room flips upside down
and think about staying there.

The house always wins when the house is me.
Every encore’s just a prettier cage.

Applause is hunger wearing perfume.
I’ve been feeding it my spine for years.

Every standing ovation is an autopsy report—
cause of death: she was too good at her job.

I learned to stand still
so the aim would be easier.
The dress is breathtaking,
and I can’t breathe.

The pearls bruise softer in summer.
By fall, they know my throat’s shape.
By winter,
I forget I can take them off.

The life of a showgirl
is knowing the curtain call
and the execution order
sound exactly the same.

And I bow
until the curtain closes,
and I’m gone-
even I’m not sure
where I go.