she tells me, with
stage lights reflected in
her eyes, that if
life is a stage, then
poverty is a strip club.

she is in love with a
bastard child. (i ask which one,
and she laughs and says,
"all of them.")

there is no curtain call in
her world; they just can't
get enough of her until they have.

the boy whose name is carved into my bones
sits at the front and
pretends he's in purgatory.

she listens to him scream for her
and asks me, "is this what sin is?"

there is ink swirled in her skin,
marking her as Lust & Greed & Envy.

she tells me, knocking back
shots of fermented dreams,
that if life is what we make of it,
the whole damn world is crawling
around on stage with her.

i look into my scrying bottle
and say,
"i just like to dance."