Other people's desire is an old noise—the kind every woman learns to ignore long before she learns how to dream.
She climbs because the ground is too heavy.
Every turn around that cold pole tears away a piece of the week, an unpaid bill, a name that left scars, a memory that refused to let go. Her body spins, but it is her soul that dances, trying to break free from its own cage.
The eyes around her imagine sin.
She knows only discipline.
She feels muscles burning.
She is living a farewell.
There are men who mistake freedom for a display window. They believe every beautiful woman exists to be possessed.
They never realized that some women dance precisely so they can belong to no one.
She holds the pole the way a drowning soul clings to the last thing keeping the world from falling apart. Suspended between the ceiling and the floor, she finds a silence that simply does not exist outside.
The performance was never meant for the audience.
It is for the woman still living inside her—the one who survived the falls, the empty promises, and the wrong hands. The one who insists on returning, lighter with every spin.
When it is over, the applause means very little.
Because the only person who truly needed to see her win... had been dancing with her all along.
turnnoffyourmind
snowghoul
origamiaround
dailybridgerton
izzy806
