“No one puts Baby in a corner.”
But Baby’s corner is a quiet place where all lines meet.
Palms upturned to the walls,
she prays to God and deities for a moral to her story;
surely there must be more to life than falling in love,
surely there must be more to dancing than being seen.
I am the version of Baby if she had rejected Patrick Swayze’s invitation for a pas de deux.
I would be Baby with her back flat against the floor,
staring up at the ceiling. Too tired to get back up.
My corner is a squash court;
for all the times this heart beat out of its useless chest
only to ricochet back into me.
My corner is as quiet as Baby’s,
but with coloured spit streaks
from all my voiceless screaming.
My corner is the muscle memory to all this lonely crying,
pushing and pulling in rhythm with my heaving.
I would be Baby with her back flat against the floor,
not knowing what to do anymore. Too tired to dirty dance.
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