she doesn’t know that the things she does are magical, yet she does them anyway, enchanting and entrancing and weaving and spelling and unaware of the power in her lips, at her fingertips—men waiting to jump how high, to plummet so low. she gives her power away and it comes back a thousand-fold, like karma. she dances and we follow like shadows on a string. our worlds stop when she pauses, and we only rest when she sleeps, soothed by the words of her silence.
what she doesn’t know keeps us coming back for more.