The sequins on her dress were tattered and broken, a small remnant of when she was pretty and dutiful to the slave of beauty, shaking them in a dingy room with a slimy pole and smelly assholes passing soggy or crispy sagging bills into her pants. Nails covered in dirt, or shit, dress probably has even more of it, her face sunken and gaunt stripped of all fat by the meth she’s been hooked on since the days of dancing and twirling, keeping balance in shoes nobody should wear because men who scratched herpes sores or diabetic feet would hand her a few bucks for looking hot. The 60s were the best. Drugs and men and freedom to be who she wanted, an artist with the oil paint on her hands the way the feces lies there now, her lithe body slicked in a blue light flesh and sweat tight and supple, now just a weathered rug you’d ignore in a doctor’s office before getting a boob job.

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