She sits on the bathtub edge, feet perched precariously on a time-slip soap-bubble. Comforting, the light-shallow breeze wafts in through the open door. Every ounce of her, inviting sin in. The promiscuity of wanting, of dangling herself off men's high-perch noses. The ever-promising game of staking one's claim, and giving as good as you got. A glance over shoulder, watching for interlopers, primed for being desired. Desire? A name she'll write off her headstone, but won't be her own. She's getting on, but she ain't old yet. Simply old enough to have worn many names. Most of them, man-given. Some, sorely wanted. Some, narrowly missed. One name in particular she doesn't call herself by anymore. Doesn't dare. De-sharpens her fangs the same way she files down her dead skin, her running-rings. Marry me, she draws in the pink bubble sop at her feet. And prays to all that is holy to be delivered from these, the worst parts her self has to offer. Even if no amount of rings would keep bad men from her door, still, she keeps. Arranges her hair in the rearview mirror once too often for an amateur driver. Remains aware, at all times and unwarranted pit stops, of who she is and what chips she's bargaining with. Eyes flicker over faces. A glimmer of lust at all she can become. Undefined, despite being named. Undaunted. It's night now, so she sits, sifting through her callouses. Regurgitating the day. The Devil, on the seat, licking his lips. Devil? Drops the capital. Ain't the first. Runs rings around her lipstick with that dirty, pierced tongue of hers, gives a man somewhere far out a seizure. Rearranges herself. Sees the devil lean in. And her story begins. One casual toe dissipates proposals. One day, she'll be the Devil in the room, but for now, she is still bargaining - tryina leverage all the things she's been against all them promises she could be, and it ain't easy. The house demands a lot to even let gels like her play, but she's quick and she's sharp. Done her math, and it holds in the market. Presses her breasts against the tops of her knees. Dusts a toenail in acetone. Unspools the day before he gets home to know her. Devour her. Translate her into all that is desirable. With an eye on the seat, lets her song begin.
Moments. Many, many moments. From the day, though not only. Speaking of song-ing. It's Tuesday. I think.
