When the Party's Over

When all the people have left,

grabbing their coats and shoes by the door,

leaving behind their hot whiskey breath and

glazed eyes on the beige walls and carpet,

I wipe the sticky, smile off my face with

hot water and soap, and scrub my cheeks raw

until I feel like myself again.

When the party’s over is when the real party begins,

less glamorous, with people slipping out the door

without much of a goodbye.

But here in the mess of the dirty bathroom counters and

magazine clippings taped to the mirrors is where

I dance openly on bare feet with sparse eyebrows.

And in the dim, milky light of evening,

I looked to see who still remained, and

broke a smile of moonlight when I saw that it was me.