When I Ruled The World
Cavalry.
She danced under the flashing, coloured lights. Tears were pouring down her face beside beads of dripping sweat. Not that they saw, her curves perfect, everywhere, her hair the ideal kind for this sort of behaviour – long enough to be sexy, short enough and looked after so it didn’t look frizzy, or matted.
Let them think she was a bitch
She wouldn’t look like a dog. She danced, grinding, twirling; furious dancing. The dancing of the grieving. The tears kept falling, she would have smelt like an ocean for the salt if not for the scent already lingering over her slick body. A man – hardly a man, a boy – walked up to her, making some small gesture.
Dance, boy? With you?
Contemptuously she laughed in his face, spinning on her heel to return to her dancing.
He was new, obviously.
The other patrons glanced at her uneasily, at him sympathetically. But an air of amusement at events, nevertheless. She’d been there long enough for people to
Understand? As if they understood!
Grasp that she just wanted space. Not merely from them. She wanted space to dance, space to exist. Space to become a conduit for whatever had been happening in her life. They’d seen it all before.
Not all of them, obviously.
The old ones, though, the ones whose eyes looked on with that glimmer of sadness in that vast emptiness of apathy. She would come. She would conduct the stars while she danced, the music
made for her
playing only for her. And she would, like the stars, burn out one day. Or night, rather, one glorious night, exploding into shards of her
fiery light
Passion, spent. Conducting done. The old eyes watched the young woman’s makeup – barely moving considering the perspiration that covered her skin. It was hot, here. Burning hot. Not a lot of
room, for anything, for anyone
oxygen. Bodies breathing in, bodies breathing out. It was laughable that she came here to stop choking. It was enough to inspire one to cry, that she came here to do so.
Let them think she was a bitch
She wouldn’t look like a dog. She danced, grinding, twirling; furious dancing. The dancing of the grieving. The tears kept falling, she would have smelt like an ocean for the salt if not for the scent already lingering over her slick body. A man – hardly a man, a boy – walked up to her, making some small gesture.
Dance, boy? With you?
Contemptuously she laughed in his face, spinning on her heel to return to her dancing.
He was new, obviously.
The other patrons glanced at her uneasily, at him sympathetically. But an air of amusement at events, nevertheless. She’d been there long enough for people to
Understand? As if they understood!
Grasp that she just wanted space. Not merely from them. She wanted space to dance, space to exist. Space to become a conduit for whatever had been happening in her life. They’d seen it all before.
Not all of them, obviously.
The old ones, though, the ones whose eyes looked on with that glimmer of sadness in that vast emptiness of apathy. She would come. She would conduct the stars while she danced, the music
made for her
playing only for her. And she would, like the stars, burn out one day. Or night, rather, one glorious night, exploding into shards of her
fiery light
Passion, spent. Conducting done. The old eyes watched the young woman’s makeup – barely moving considering the perspiration that covered her skin. It was hot, here. Burning hot. Not a lot of
room, for anything, for anyone
oxygen. Bodies breathing in, bodies breathing out. It was laughable that she came here to stop choking. It was enough to inspire one to cry, that she came here to do so.