The Dancer

I was invited to a midnight dance for two

though, as the latter, my dismay would be the

melody for the affair.

See, it wasn't my heart that he'd danced away with

(though I would've preferred he would)

it was my dignity, twirling around with it en pionte,

graceful and enchanting

I'd forgotten it was my ability to speak up

against being disrespected that he was taking from me.

Oh, he didn't need no tune for this one, no,

my shocked silence was as rhythmic as he pleased.

I danced clumsily to catch up with him,

to resist what was left of my regality

but my kwasa and dombolo fused together

were not swift enough.

A dance I would've missed for a night with poetry and

a lover's goodnight that wasn't even there.

I curse the heart for its ability to convince

without making an ounce of sense-

meeting a stranger at that time of the night, nogal?

If only those Facebook messages could've

read and replied to themselves, though lonely,

my dignity would still be undamaged.

My insecurities refused to let him strip me

while french-kissing the sense out of my ears

and that just pissed him off.

I felt my flab swallow itself as he rubbed his audacity over it.

On my way home this poem yelled profanities at him

 asking me," You just gonna let him get away with that?"

After almost writing it down it made it clear to me that

 there was not gonna be any sweet metaphors for him

or enough that described how stupid I'd been.

The street lights looked on

with their sympathy, a sunlight they couldn't sufficiently afford me

when I needed my shadow to applaud me on the part of myself

I didn't give away that night.