PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

    



     The music thumps, as does her heartbeat; two rhythms melding into together into a single pounding that could take control of her.  The music is loud and fast, the bodies of the crowd moving to it as one.  Pale hands are thrust into the air as sweaty bodies press against one another in innocent abandon.

The girl can feel the beat of the music overpowering the beat of her heart until she can no longer distinguish the two.  The children in black dance around her. She can feel the warmth of their bodies against hers, smell their fragrance as she presses against them, taste their spit as she kisses them.  They dress in black because they love the night and all it holds; all the sweet dirty things that the daytime world, the world of light and secrets and rules, would frown upon.  The night is the time when a girl can pull a boy she doesn’t know to her and meet his lips with her own.  The night is the time when a boy can pull another boy to him and hold him closely, whispering promises of love, brushing his lips against the other boys cheek, the other boys lips.  The night is the time of freedom; the night is the time all the sweet children in black wait for before they come out to play.

     The children of the night wear thrift store clothing, ragged jeans and thin T-shirts.  They dye their hair all the colors of the rainbow and cut it or tease it into wild styles that embarrass their parents.  They wear leather, and fishnet, and lace stolen from graveyards and funerals.  They wear costume jewelry pocked from the same thrift stores they got their clothes.  Skulls and crucifixes and razorblade dangle from their ears.  Hoops adorn their noses, lips and nipples.  They smudge their eyes with large blotches of black eyeliner, making them look bruised.  They smear lipstick across their lips: hot orange, icy blue, bruised purple, bloody red, death black.  For most of them their faces are thin, hollow cheekbones accent dark eyes.  They are thin, most only bone with skin stretched taunt over their skeletons.  They are pale like the moon which they dance beneath, pale like death, pale like the grave.  They look like selections.  They are beautiful.

    The girl is one of them.  She dances with them and smiles with them and understands them.  That is all they ask of her in return for their friendship really; all they want is to be understood.

     The girl is one of the youngest of the crowd, only 16, but she is dancing with a boy who is at least 18.  He doesn’t know how old she is; she looks older then her years and is a good dance, that is all that matters.  The more she dances the more the music is taking control, she is getting drunk off the music.  Some kids are drinking or smoking to achieve what she is feeling, but most aren’t.  Most are born away on the same feeling as she.  They are getting drunk off the music and high on the energy of the crowd.

     The girl is dancing up on the boy.  His arm is looped around her waist as he holds her to him.  Her body is pressing against his, their pelvic bones are grinding together.  The boy, who she doesn’t know, is kissing her neck and the girl turns her head to let him.

     When the song is over, he lets her go reluctantly and smiles at her.  He introducers himself to her as Nathan, and she smiles then gives him her name.  Whether or not the boys name is actually Nathan is impossible to say for many of these children like to give false names, names other then what the daytime world knows them as.  Nathan and the girl move off to the side of the dance floor and he buys her a bottle of water.  They shout over the music as they catch their breath.  “You are an awesome dancer,” he says, “you dance like you are having sex.” The girl only smiles in return to the compliment.    

     They dance several more times throughout the evening, and by the time the club closes the girl has pulled him to her and pressed her lips to his.  She has run her fingers through his sweaty red hair and he has wrapped her in a hug, holding her tightly against his 6 foot plus frame.  When the club closes they part ways, e-mail addresses have been exchanged, half-hearted promises of meeting up again have been said, and last goodbyes have been exchanged in the form of long kisses and groping hands.  Chances are they will never see each other again, but that is alright by them.  Each have become accustomed to single serving friends and lovers; people who will never know them as other people know them, only for what they wish to be known as.  

     Several days later the girl is wandering the hallways of her school, a vast monstrosity of plaster and drywall and concrete.  Out of the corner of her eye she sees a tall boy, a boy who is well over 6 foot tall and has bright red hair.  He is pale and wears blue jeans and a black T- shirt. He is standing with a group of other seniors and when he looks up his eyes catch hers.  He smiles.  She smiles.  A world of thoughts are exchanged in that glance, memories of a night under hot lights with loud fast music, memories of sweaty bodies pressing against one another, memories of lips meeting and darting tongues and saliva being exchanged . . .

     The boy’s attention is caught by a friend of his.  When he looks up again the pretty girl in the black silk and lace dress is gone.  Down the hall, out of view, the girl is smiling to herself.  The boy smiles to himself as well and goes back to his friends.  He knows he will see her again, as does she.  Under the hot lights of the dance floor, getting drunk off the music and high off the energy of the crowd.  He will see her again under the cover of night surrounded by the sweet scent of clove cigarettes and sweat.  He will pull her into his arms and dance with her to the loud, fast music as though they are making love.  And by the time the sun rises he will brush his lips against hers and she will run her fingers through his hair . . .