“I don’t want this.” You’re smug in stripes, dark suit.
A table dance turndown with taunt: wry wave,
rebuke my plaid, rebuff my braids. Pursuit:
two pilots, table over — cash, depraved.
A dozen dances, dollars drained. All done
too damp to dress, my top against my chest,
you suggest, by wave, I stop — lap dance, not shun.
You’re bourbon bold — sold, 50, I’m topless.
Pink bubblegum thong grind, your breath behind.
Your smell: savagery, dirt, woods where I hurt
— still want to play. Your thousand offer, declined
for hotel stay. I pout, put on my shirt.
Dark eyes, I’m honest, haunt me to resist.
Weak whisper, but I walk: “You don’t want this.”
Pink Litter. 