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  • I am waiting for my man
    Twenty-six euros in my hand

    Are we going to perform this dance, then, put on a show in nine inch heels and clawing nails - yes, it seems, your hands already on my hips and here we go again, swirling around and around, spinning, leaping, but our steps are out of synch, as always. You could never accept that I wanted to lead.

    Hey white boy, what you doin’ uptown
    Hey white boy, you chasin’ my women around

    It has been a while, hasn't it, since you had me at point-blank range, so close you can feel me pounding inside your temples. You've missed me, have you, well if you think this is going to be easy, you had better reconsider. My sword may be heavy, but I'm a master of fencing. I haven't come to sweet-talk; if we’re going to dance, then let’s dance like we’re at war.


    He's never early, he's always late
    First thing you learn is that you always gotta wait

    Your name is carved into my chest, a scar still sore and pounding after all this time, stitches ready to burst open.

    Last night I found myself running down your boulevard in the rain, and the scenario was all too familiar, dark puddles reflecting naked branches and shop windows mirroring my face; the dark, wet hair crossing out my features, like the blueprint of your fingers when your hand slapped my skin. I ran, I ran, head spinning, repeating street names, counting street numbers. 

    Up to a brownstone, up seven flights of stairs
    Everybody’s pinned you and nobody cares

    I entered the code and slipped in through the gate, hit damp darkness and hesitated. It seemed so easy; one foot before the other, just one step at a time, and before I knew it I was right back where I started: tip-toeing up the stairs, running out of breath and out of time, my pulse echoing in the hallway.

    Another night is falling and I'm running still, one hand on the banister and feet hardly touching the steps. My marble face lights the darkened space like a pale, flickering lamp, and I can't allow myself to fade until I've lit up the past, so up, up I run, slamming into the wall at each floor like a clenched fist, banging on doors like they're faces with eyes shut tight.

    A strange choreography, this. I guess when you're the leading lady you may find that you're often dancing alone.
  • Here we are, then, once again attempting to stare each other down. I still wear my heart on my sleeve, like a child, and you say it’s becoming. It’s becoming all too familiar.

    Your sentences are articulate and polished, but I haven't come to hear you out. I no longer mistake your eloquence for kindness. I step forward, raising my voice, and my vocabulary is sharpened this time, my arguments are fine-tuned; present resistance. I dare you to point your apt formulations at me; I guarantee you there's pain in the offing.

    You're starving for some company, a slice of my passion, a few crumbles of compassion, but I won't be staying around this time. You can strike at me, but you can't strike me dumb and you can't strike me down. I'm the light flowing across your floor-boards, you can cut into me but I won't bleed out.

    He’s got the works, gives you sweet taste
    Then you gotta split because you got no time to waste

    Like a dethroned queen I stand by your window, overlooking the riots from a safe distance. My head may hit the floor before dawn, but I'll rise again before dusk and return to haunt you for as long as it takes to be free. I'm well equipped to handle you this time, and I know - even beaten and beheaded, my legend will outlive yours.

    I’m feeling good, feeling so fine
    Until tomorrow, but that’s just some other time
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