a man who performs with the lions, not the wolves
He thinks of the circus on the nights he cannot sleep, when the thunder is rattling his windows and the wind is howling through the slits of the doors as though they were the whistles of the ghosts. He thinks of the colours that flash with billowing tents and the costumes that the women bend and melt their bodies to and how the hat would sit on the leaders head with an air of pride. He thinks of the pride that consumes him when he thinks of the food that was pure sugar and salt, that made his hands sticky and his stomach swollen. He thinks of the smells. The grass that smelled burnt. The smell of the perfume and the chalk dusting the performer’s hands. The smell of the citrus from the fresh lemonade. He thinks of the daily winks from the bearded lady and the flush that would travel to his chest. He thinks of the rubber that marred his hands and the roar from the lions. He thinks of the teeth that ripped the veins from his calf muscles and the screams that were high pitched and wavering. He knows the screams were his own, and the shame that fills his chest was for that the show didn’t go on.
He didn’t perform again.
He thinks of the circus when he sits by the window and sees the silhouette of a man that followed him home and sits by the rose bushes. He thinks of how the stubble that scratches his face and the hums that vibrate the man’s chest are like a song. A song that cannot go on and he holds the man’s hand when he lies in the fields full of daises and making his nose itch and he remembers the sweat that slid down his back when he was under the beaming lights and the audience roared with excitement.
It’s a dull feeling that numbs his chest.
And he thinks of the circus and the burning of the tents and has a sense of satisfaction.
The man beside him hums, a burn dug into his neck.
Stiles smiles, a twist of his lips and closes his eyes with the sun a reminder.
