Shame dragged the cat out of the bag.
Her only witness was a stray dog.
Hastily, she rocked the slut strut with
her heels in her hands carefully struggling
to hide her face and lurching across the
street dressed in last night’s clothes.
Dabbing her eyes, careful not to smudge
her faded makeup. Embracing the look
of a scared clown on a rainy day.
Her hair is a mess, clothes are wrinkled
and stained with alcohol and vomit.
Hot scotch breathes and traces of cigarettes
all over her body. An unfamiliar blunt taste
still in her mouth, masculine scent carefully
printed on her skin. She woke up in a strange
house in the arms of a man she could barely
remember. Dazed and confused, her body felt
so sore that every movement made her cringe.
The sex must have been rough!
She has a blurry vision, shady memory of last
night’s events haunting her, liquefied thoughts
and speculations here and there constantly
running in and out of her mind. Leaving a night
full of inebriated fun feeling, waking cloaked in
shame. Braving the cold and the mockery of
daybreak, exposing sins of the previous night,
a moving billboard accentuating evidence of a
drunken night of sex. She is embarrassed.
Constantly checking to ensure that the coast is clear,
hiding from the gaze of an empty street and playing
cool and busy to a fleet of cars. Rocking the black veil of
shame. The walk of shame doesn’t need heels anyway.