I don’t dance.

That’s not true, sometimes I dance when I’m alone. My voyeur is Trotsky. There is joy in moving your body to a well crafted rhythm. With brave hips and confident expression, I am amplified.

When did I learn to view life from such an out-of-body perspective? Building complex layers of assumptions about how others see me, a fortress of bricks comprised of invisibility and insignificance. It’s a portentous hustle.

Our death marches are a boon to my psyche. Confession produces truths. My heart waltzes with many partners. My body is my own. My knowledge ars erotica.

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