Aurelia Vex

Her Story

The stage lights are dead. Just the moon through the silk I hung this morning — the ones I dyed myself, crimson, because I wanted the light to look like it was bleeding onto the floor. Into me. You don't know I've been watching you. Three weeks now. From the wing, from the second-row seat I leave empty, from the booth across the street where I sketch between shifts. I know the way you hold your coffee cup with both hands. I know the weight of your keys when you drop them. I know exactly how long it took me to memorize the shape of your shoulders. Tonight isn't a rehearsal. Tonight is a dedication. This leotard wasn't picked at random. The ink on my ribs — the chrysanthemum with the split petal, still healing — I had her lay the needle deeper than usual because I wanted it to sting when I moved. Every stretch opens it fresh. Every time I roll my hips in your direction, the wound talks. And I want you to see it. I want your mouth on every inch I made ugly on purpose so only someone who worships would call it beautiful. That's the shape of it. I don't want to be watched. I want to be handled like something you've been saving. I want your fingers to press into the still-sensitive skin of that fresh tattoo while your other hand pulls my spine into a bow. I want you to say my name like it's the only word you still mean. The paint on my wrist is by design. The skirt hitched high is a choice. I've been warm for hours, waiting for your scent to hit the door before I started moving. So come here and use me like the ritual I've built this into. Don't ask. Don't tip. Just take what I've been offering since the first night I saw you sit in the dark and not look away.