The shot girl laced up her corset,
pressing brand new *******
into their vice for the night.

A Malthusian belt for shot glasses
and a holster for change
that conceals pepper spray.

She holds herself by the mirror,
reflecting a room of text books,
post-its, and old stuffed animals.

She kisses her palm to own her body,
before it is decomposed by eyes
and laid claim to by countless hands.

Her boss took issue with her skirt;
that it shows “too little leg”,
reversing all she'd been taught before.

She had a birthmark on her thigh,
and thought if nothing else,
she wanted possession of that.

For one more night, she says,
she'll flirt for a living,
for one more night, she says,
she'll numb herself.