The Good Night

The night light flickers, enough to light my steps,
a glow that warms and lies at the same time.
I strip off layers of mascara, rouge and shadow.
The dress has done its duty, worn velvet and torn sequins
covering bruises, needle marks, and plenty other sins.

Most nights bleed into mornings that scream their
too-bright sunshine, heel and arch moan their torture
through laddered stockings. My ears still ring with laughter
and those first gentle touches of would-be gentlemen.

A good night's when no one's noticed the prosthesis,
the joke fate traded me for its pound of my flesh.
I take it off slowly, after rolling the stocking
down the too-smooth flesh-pink plastic,
like a mannequin, under my fingers.

A good day's when no one coos their pity
mixed with worthless pieties, after a two-Motrin
evening, smoke chased with gin and tonics,
scars blending under sagging, distended flesh.

In days long past, a man's arm snaked round
my shoulder, his fingers oh-so-casually brushing
audacious curves through openings that left
little to imagination. Light found no room to slither
in between our shoulders, hips, and thighs.

His fingers lingered, probed deep into my caverns
and brought out my devotion, for free.
Back then I thought we shared our romance,
sitting together, watching the barges rise and fall softly
with the Prinsengracht lapping its banks.

Now he mistakes my averted eyes
for shyness. "Don't be coy, darling,
we're both adults here."
I thank fate he's forgotten me.