Moth

hush-syrup:

Moth owned a voice all shaky lovely, inventive cadences, unintended rhythm and an assortment of limbs swan-elegant flowing like cursive, like the curls of her pink-teased hair. Most nights, under the gaze of sleazy dim lights and sleazy hungry men she unleashed sweet songs while perching pornographic over the sleek body of the bar. Later, bent over dressing tables backstage, zebra make-up smudged as her senses, Moth hummed soft siren soliloquies to accompany grunting clients like beat-box. Every nameless lover was a color, like green for spankers and red for biters and yellow for lasted-less-than-one-minuters. Never biased, Moth handed infections out equally. Back inside apartment, behind room’s door, Moth would line overdoses on posh wooden floors and flirt outrageously with the moon.