split open in the middle – soft and pink and split open. the most important part of me made men crazy; pushed them to criminal activity. sometimes they just needed to touch it. sometimes they wanted to split me open farther; they were driven to take responsibility for, be in possession of that part of that made them crazy. it wasn’t their fault. soft and pink and split open – it invited them, spoke to a part of them that couldn’t hear me say no. their hands and parts left me damaged and always willing – just wanting to be liked, singing for my supper, desiring their attentions. i offered up that part of me in exchange for kind words and, later, cold beer. i started dancing because it was easy. i liked the music and knew id get paid for the most important part of me. soft and pink and split open – intoxicating and deserving of their wrinkled, green dollars. the music moved me around a cold brass pole and my body writhed in a troubled competition with that ever desirable part of me. but something happened on that stage – something they didn’t plan on. perched on stiletto heels, the split open part of me found her way home and together we found the strength to mock the crazy ones hiding in the shadows of the tiny stage. we saw them, small and desperate, clutching a measly, wrinkled dollar; each one vying for a clear look at the soft, pink part of me that i now possessed. we felt the music together as we laughed at their weakness and tossed our fears back at them with a tiny black thong. later, in the dressing room, surrounded by other split open people, we told our stories and fondled, touched and fell in love. we stopped feeling split open – just soft and pink and ready to do things our way.