To be lost in it with her?—
the music, the night, the lie.
I want the beat to take me,
want to grab her hand,
close my eyes,
let go.
Just one night with her—one fucking night—where my scars don't drag me back by the throat. One night where I can dance without flinching, laugh without scanning for exits, smile without wincing.
I want to be free more than I want to breathe.
Like the way I was able to let go in the basement... with him.
But I can’t.
So I stay here.
Then aLike A Prayer remix drops
and Celie shrieks.
The beat is chrome and church-burn?—
angels autotuned,
formant vocals tearing from a cherub-throat,
all halos and heat.
DJ Crush is usually stone behind the booth with his head down—a statue no one prays to anymore. Which is why I notice that when I look up at the DJ booth—just as Celie screams, spinning toward me in a happy blur of“THIS IS MY FUCKING SONG”—
his head lifts.
And his dark gaze slashes through the crowd,
sliding right to her.
Celie’s jumping up and down.
And then?—
he smiles.
So faint, I might've imagined it.
The track drops harder.
The bass shakes the soles of my boots.
Celie never sees it, and I'll never tell her.
She’d never believe me anyway.
“…just enough to believe it wasn’t real.”
