Tripping in time to that upbeat disapproval

checking to see if you saw

making sure the crescendo falls when

something rises.

Vandalise the curves, the blemishes

the thinking,

unsure what that body means, feels –

normalising that voice

which becomes the chorus

with a Mariah Carey              finale.

 

You find yourself swaying –

 

familiar with the notes, the rises;

not long after you find yourself dancing.

Join in

you know the lines

 

A ritual that still hums when not practiced

danced to when not preached

until thoughts and beliefs are alike

like friends mock-dancing in a club.

Then you find the girl called Her

staring back through glass

not sure why she can’t look

below the neck.

She sways again:

you know the lines

She sways again,

you know th-

with eyes closed this time.

Opens.

For a brief second

she paints over the graffiti

on the curves, the blemishes,

the thinking

until next time.

 

But it’s alright.