The Dancer

I sway, pulsing with the music instead of my heart,

His eyes grow wide, his mouth drops open,

The thin metal chains from my headdress sing and twinkle in the candlelight,

With a finger, I close his mouth and let him see my smile from under the links,

Experienced, practiced motions draw him out of his fears, out from where he is safe,

His hands reach out for me. I am too quick, too nimble and spin out of the way,

Metal chains lash about gently, settling with a tink-tink.

He is impatient now, no longer careful, following my lead,

In my room, it's too dark for him to see, but his mind makes up the images he wants,

Is that an arm, a bare thigh he spies? Only for an instant, my burning flesh under his fingertips,

I release a careless laugh and he seeks me out,

Shh-in, the sound of an unsheathing sword,

Mine, not his.

Before the song is over, my sword has become drunk with his blood, warm from his innards.

The links are wet and dropping.

I dance until the song is over—

Tiny crimson droplets everywhere.