I love going out in my hometown

Give me a man who can dance

I love going out in my hometown in the liminal space between Christmas and New Year.
I didn’t always.
I used to feel drained.
Now, I go for hours without looking at my phone.
I even dance to house music.

My high school classmates are my most treasured witnesses. 
Fuck an audience that hasn’t watched the prequel.

I went to the kind of bar you go to when everything else is closed- fit for a rat.
A crew of boys couldn’t have been older than 16.
The smallest was ‘emo’, like I was at his age;
plucked out of 2007 MySpace- curtain side fringe, septum piercing, black skinny jeans, the works.

Dancing with his boys, I digged his vibe.
Oi brother, I have washed my face 5475 times since I last dressed like that but my eyes are still black.
I hope puberty hits him like a truck too.

Boys who dance are so cool. I want to watch them all night like men watch me everywhere, all the time.
I never date them because I have to prioritise.
The punishment for power is forgoing beauty.

Those who dance and those who talk are never the same.
The ones who can’t do the former are forced to develop a gift for the latter.
Still, I love a man who bends at the waist.

Somewhere, I read a boy’s confession about his classmates
He would squint and imagine the perfect girl, with the boobs of classmate A, the face of classmate B, the legs of classmate C etc. 
He was self-conscious about this objectification 
I am not
It’s my turn 

I just love a man who bends

Smoking indoors is illegal, but after midnight, nobody cares.
Even my bra smells like I was working down the mines when I wake up in the morning.
And by morning,
I mean afternoon.