We Are Love

We Are Love

We weren’t born for
the world of champagne,
pearls, masquerade thrills,
Egyptian cotton sheets
or expensive high-heeled shoes.
You know how we prefer
cigarette smoke against the sky,
late-night marathon conversations,
holes in our fishnets, our hearts,
our cardigans. Tattoos of
broken hearts or black widows or ballet dancers,
chipped nail polish and illegal substances,
wild car rides and sequined bustiers,
our pride bolstered by
how great we look in thigh highs
or pancake makeup,
our corsets and high-heels.
We’re the scavengers, the
art nouveau – young, or
old, with our choppy hair
or heavy-lidded eyes, waves
and red lipstick, pressing
our lips together outside, inside,
under fluorescents or sunlight.
We’re hands clasped together
late in the night, magnets
with opposite pulls.
We’re the vampires of this fair city,
burning easily in daylight but
owning the streets after midnight,
unkempt and savage,
brutal but beautiful. We are
the lovers, the dancers, the dreamers.
We’re the music-makers
and the artistes. We spin our tales,
our webs, the heads of passerby,
we break into song and
steal hearts. We are thieves in the night,
vandals and scoundrels
hooligans and whores.
We are love. And we do not apologize.