Literary Orphans

The Unexpected Power of a Witness by Rachel Yamshon

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These yellow fluorescent lights are nauseating. Why am I disappointed the bruise on my right bicep is fading? My knees are mini leopards and my foot has a three inch crescent moon scab. My right big toe is pink and swollen from an ingrown toenail. The blister on my left palm finally popped and is starting to peel. My left pinky toe hasn’t had a nail in months. My middle finger started bleeding yesterday and is still raw; I need to stalk up on Band-Aids. Where did the scar on my right forearm come from? This dark pink indent along my ankle is slightly itchy and here is a fish shaped garnet burn on my left wrist. My legs are tight, my thighs blaze, my arms are sore, my neck is aching, my back is sweating, my heart is pounding. Get me back under the glowing red light where these masculine imperfections become my feminine trophies. Watch me pull on my plaid skirt, as I lace these 5 inch leather boots. Gaze upon my limbs in black strips of velvet. Focus on my fingers as I clip my nude bra and notice how you forget it’s there. Can you feel the bass vibrating the walls? This piece of metal is my knight. The battle is between the silver, the red and my curve. I welcome you in. I invite you to witness me. You are here because I allow you to be. This is my house. Love Pole is war.

 

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The quivering fuchsia leaping on our skin has turned us into a fairy tale. Bursts of violet and teal scream across your face as the rhythm reverberates across your chest. My magic has you spellbound against the crimson wall. The peeling paint reveals slight hints of gold, desperate to shine again. The tiny hairs on your neck stand at full attention as if frozen by the humidity. If you look me in the eye will you turn to stone? Keep holding your breath, one wrong move will send me flying away.

 

Like a lioness, track me or lose me. My scarlet tank presses deep into my skin. My charcoal mane tumbles across my collarbone as my lazy head rolls to the drunken sound of the room. My mouth drops open as I inhale the glistening smoke. My hands glide up my thighs, skin barely separated by the dark wash jeans, fingers gently teasing awake your creature’s longing. I catch a glimpse of my silhouette reflected in your enamored gaze.

 

Legs spread, knees bend, hips churn. This swirling descent to the floor is torture to your forbidden touch.  Round they go, leisurely orbiting your base hunger. Are you aware how your teeth are hugging your trembling lower lip? No, my hips haven’t been satiated yet. The circles quicken as my knees touch down. My hands caress my body, eventually entangling themselves in my hair, holding on or they might get lost as I bounce on my ankles. Up, around, down, bounce, bounce. My left hand falls to my neck, as my chest takes the lead. It draws me forward, my right hand outstretched on the glittered floor, undulating muscles ready to pounce.

 

My back lengthens as my knees straighten.  I look up to you, inches from your torn Converse.  The flashes of light have found their canvas across my splayed frame. Can you see the music pumping through my delicate veins? I pull my feet beneath me and swing around in an instant. Release your lip from its guard, or you’ll start to bleed.  As my hair falls upon my face, I feel your heat anticipating my touch. But, you will not be relieved yet. Let me stand, head down, vertebrae stacking upon each other like Legos. Finally, I reach the top whipping my hair to my shoulder blades. The wind speeds across your clenched jaw, momentarily cooling the tension.

 

I sense you’ve lost composure as I sway my hips a centimeter from your metallic belt buckle. Your warm breath flows past the crevice where my neck kisses my right shoulder. Press your chest against my spine. Intertwine your fingers with mine and raise them to your cheek. Did you whisper my name as your lips brushed my ear?

 

Come, take control. Allow your hips to lead mine. Teach us how to ride the undercurrent. Prove that your instinct is my subconscious will. Pull me in. Pull me close until it hurts. Use my heartbeat like a compass and sail your hands across my waist, up to my ribs until your shy thumbs graze the bottom of my breasts. Spin me round so our foreheads meet. Our sweat intermingling as the lights flash our shadows across the floor, the buttons of our jeans nearly creating a spark.

 

Let’s close our eyes. Feel me beneath the music. Hold onto what is there because once the flood lights switch on, I may turn to dust.

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Rachel Yamshon is a sneaker wearing, pole dancing fanatic biking through the foggy streets of Los Angeles. She is fascinated with feminine nature and hopes that women will learn to fight masculine traditions in order to celebrate and nurture their spirit.

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–Foreground Art by Helen Norcott

–Background Art by So-Ghislaine

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