A G-Type Star
He dances to a Jacques Derrida techno beat,
peeling off her skin, prying out her teeth,
and plucking the muscles from her pale skeleton
with each pulse of the bass line.
His deconstructionist dance breaks her down
to flesh and bone,
then molecules,
then atoms:
carbon
oxygen
hydrogen
the same dust that beats in the fiery heart of stars.
He classifies her in the main sequence
along with all the other suns.
Despite her new luminosity,
she's nothing unique.
He draws a black line through her name.
The music stops.
In the silence she feels
frantic,
like she should scramble for the last chair,
but there are no chairs to clamber over,
and he leaves her hanging
alone and fading
in a cold dark vacuum.
What you know me by
A mole underneath the right armpit.
A front right tooth chipped and poorly capped.
Eyelashes that always get mistaken for fakes.
Cracked heels that never get any smoother.
Two freckles high on the insides of two thighs.
A freckle on the knuckle of a left middle finger.
