My belly grows weak from this hunger.
You offer the love of a saint,
Yet I betray your open hand.
These are my lips pressed hot against anothers.
The thought of his body and mine
It would murder you slowly. Painfully.
But, these marks and holes are cavernous.
These are our insecurities
Such that I am scared to give away.

This is our song.
This is our dance.
This is our cabaret.

Do we sing, though our voices are hoarse, and weary of the chorus?
Do we dance, though our legs fall beneath us?

For the lights. For the stage. For the audience. For the love of a saint. For the crumbling of an empire. For the grace of God.


The show must go on.