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.
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