performance art

This is happiness, standing in spotlights on a warm summer evening, sweating through my cotton cage, anticipating the moment you cross the divide and press your skin against mine. This ideological pretense sets the stage of jealousy, abandonment, and rejection; dim the lights and take your seats, we’re about to begin.

This is refined intoxication turning to slobbering drunkenness, growing my fingernails to scrape and hollow out your vessel with passive indifference. This is performance art, throwing fragments of my damaged skull to the audience; pay attention, you could catch a souvenir.

My lines begin to falter as words turn grey, aiming for white noise, stiff static statements. You’re the last one to leave, spine pressed against the wall, crossed arms and curved hips settled into a position of patience. There is love lingering on your lips, gaze unwavering, tonguing the soft contours of your mouth, mixing saliva with desire. Breath comes in shallow shakes, echoes of lust flowing down your throat, the injection of intention met with observant apathy. I feel your heat radiate.

I am lit up with love and drunk on mistakes. My monologue continues long after you’ve left, and I speak to hear echoes, to feel safe, to record my loathing in the harsh light of the stage. This is the smile that remains on the ceiling while I’m waiting for the lights to fade.