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Exotic Dancer

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I am trapped in the mind of a man who watches women dance. Though I am bodiless, he makes me dance too, though my dancing isn’t the exotic kind he watches through his beautiful irises. ~ I am trapped up here in a small corner. Oh, I’m special to him, but only when he wants to play. Meanwhile I sit in my comfortable corner of his creative right side and wait for his knock on the bedroom window. He never comes through the front door that would be like commitment, like he wanted to talk to me in person. No, instead he raps on my window expecting me to open it just enough to hear me and for me to hear him. Very important in this strange relationship that I hear him. For it is his words that guide my dance. ~ How do I dance if I’m not erotic? I misspoke earlier. I am erotic and exotic. But instead of dancing for him with my body I use my words. They tantalize him drawing him again and again to my bedroom window, but never to my front door. Of course, the front door is also inside his mind. I don’t know why in the privacy of his cerebrum he doesn’t admit his affections. ~ You’re asking how I got here? It’s a question I ask myself daily. It keeps me awake in the middle of the night. Wondering. How did I get stuck here? Why can’t I leave? Can I just open the window? What would happen if I walked out the door? I am afraid that if I walked out the front door I’d be mired even more inside this man’s skull. At least in the comfort of my rooms—a kitchenette, a bathroom, a sitting room, a bedroom—I feel secure. I know how to move about and fix myself metaphorical food. ~ I am a woman. I know because I used to inhabit a body. It’s how this man found me. Some meeting of some sort, it’s hard to imagine now. I feel shades of my body, memories. Like an amputee after the war. I feel part of me that used to be. Still must be somewhere. When I said I don’t know what’s on the other side of my front door (I called it MY front door…see how it happens? So seductive, he is.) I was not quite telling the truth. On the other side might be my body. The one I used to possess. The one that some men liked, but he didn’t. Some men thought it womanly and sensual. I’ve been whistled and stared at admiringly. I have beautiful eyes (There! Were they my actual eyes or only memory?) and hair and lips. I have a lovely face. Men like certain parts of women. They are drawn—all of them—to the outside first, but for each it’s a different item off the menu he sees. What did he see in me that made him capture me and design for me a comfortable spot inside his mind? He saw what my hands and clever mind were capable of. He saw my stories and tales the ones that made him blush and lose all reason. ~ Sometimes he doesn’t stay outside the window in a brain matter hedge, he climbs over the sill and sits with me on my bed. Rarely in the sitting room. Unless he’s lecturing me on some point of morality I’ve lost. He scolds me when he’s scared of losing his whole brain to me. ~ I’m greedy and competitive. I hate the women he watches through his hazel eyes. The perfectly formed women with plastic parts. I hate how they draw his attention so readily away from me. It’s those times I feel most alone. When I feel like opening that front door to see what’s outside. But he’s so clever, my muse. He senses when I feel separated and so pulls me close again with a seductive word or phrase. His favorite is “Tell me a story.” This is how I dance for him. ~ Sometimes I use his desire for me against him. He craves my stories. If I’m angry I’ll stay silent in my room. I won’t answer his window knock. He never rattles it. That gets me angry too. Instead he taps until I open it a little (It’s rarely ever closed.) and he puts his hands over the sill so I can see his fingers and nails that will never scratch my back. Never touch my hand. I try to show him my hands but they are tied to the story. ~ My woman body had obligations and commitments. She had a family and a home. She had children who kissed her cheeks and a husband her lips. She had experiences and a childhood, a life to call her own. The memories seduce him the most. The ones he loves to hear again and again as if they were his own. He wants them. Because unlike me his body is all he has, he’s all cerebellum and convergent thinking. Which is why he chooses to fill his cerebrum with my divergent stories. ~ I could open the front door to reality or stay in the folds of his forming self. ~ If I had the plastic body I might be able to be both. Inside and outside. Then he would rattle my windows and break down my front door and make himself known to the whole world as a complete man.

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BWOWP_WHITE01  

Black Words On White Paper is a unique literary journal, publishing poems and flash fiction that fit onto a single page. This is the premier...

BWOWP_WHITE01  

Black Words On White Paper is a unique literary journal, publishing poems and flash fiction that fit onto a single page. This is the premier...

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