Doomed At Birth To Live In Tights and Sit On Old Men’s Laps

At birth,

I was cursed,

laying,

lonely in a crib,

as darkness descended,

on the brightest of days.

I could never be alone,

but I could never find someone solid,

doomed to waste a life,

waiting for my welcome to be rescinded (it always is).

Flowing dresses,

tights that tempt,

reminding them of nights when they still felt young,

because when they feel me,

half asleep,

half way between candy dreams,

and throwing up in the street,

by their side,

a status symbol,

they are the man that they wish their reflection would be.

Always a few drinks too late,

to be sensible,

but always too Catholic to give them what they really want,

I just fall asleep in their lap,

praying for the both of us,

to a God who tires of my traumas.

I wake up,

but I keep my eyes shut,

because he holds me,

like I’ve fallen so many times,

and he wants to make it all better,

and I want to let him,

so I keep my eyes shut,

letting hands wander,

letting myself wonder,

if his desire is deeper,

than his erection suggests (it never is).

My long legs are draped in lace,

finding the harsh darkness of suit trousers,

feeling so familiar,

finding their way home,

but never truly able to stay.

There was never another choice.

That’s all I say,

to myself,

and my reflection,

as I find my way to another home,

another who can’t believe his luck,

thinking that a down on her luck seductress,

is the answer to his mid life crisis.