the bar that disguises itself
as a loan office on the first floor,
club on the second,
bathhouse on the third.

the dance floor is hot and sweaty
and the ceilings threaten to cave in,
the drinks are a gift
(though the liquor is shit)
and boys fuck on tvs,
the only girls around either
dance with their hijabs,
or else they’re with the pretty boys
doing coke,
so i tuck my arm behind me
and slouch to be shorter,
to be a fly on the wall
and observe.

the music sounds like a record skipping,
begging for a beat to drop,
and the boys pretending to be straight,
or else they’re in the wrong place,
ask for my name,
and i have to keep from laughing;
“i’m gay, but thank you.”

my friends are in the back,
getting high
or kissing strangers
so i call an uber
and he picks me up in my ex’s car
and now i have to laugh
to keep from crying.

by 5am i’ve showered
and the cats are hungry
and complain that i haven’t been home all night.
suddenly the dance floor seems a million miles away
and i’m glad i went,
but i won’t be going back.