Poem. Private Dancer.

 
Strange shadows jut out across the wooden surface of the floor
The dresser creaks as I put down my palms on it
I watch my face in the mirror that confronts me

The glass is cracked
My face is fractured

You grab me by the waist, and you spin me
The music starts and we dance
Throwing shapes with our bodies
Tapping rhythms and beats
Creating our own shadows onto the wooden surface of the floor.

Kate © 

Published Sick Lit Magazine 2017

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