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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 me 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, 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, insincere smiles, and, later, cold beer. i fell into to dancing passionately. stripping validated the exchanges i shared with random men, gave purpose to a part that i had never used for myself. soft and pink and split open – intoxicating and deserving of their wrinkled, green dollars, heartfelt catcalls, and earnest proposals in dark corners later. angry rock moved my body and emotions in a troubled competition with that ever desirable part of me. seeing that struggle showcased in a giant mirror, the stage lit just so to hide my flaws something changed in me, on a drunken night, in a sleazy bar, my ass pressed to a floor you wouldnt walk barefoot on, the split open part of me found her way home. together we found the strength to mock those silly fuckers, 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. angry rock became our rallying cry, as we laughed at their weakness, perched on stiletto heels, we tossed anger and fear back at them with a tiny black thong. we had found our revolution. later, in the dressing room, surrounded by other split open people, we shared 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.
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