I am magic, she whispers. An incantation. She worries the words between her teeth.
She totters on the highest of heels, clear Lucite. She is careful, arms high at her sides. She could stop the world.
I am magic, she whispers. An invocation. She worries the words between the soft tips of her fingers.
She is on a stage, slick, black. Each step, a hard echo. The music wraps around her, binds her to this place.
I am a dark magic, she shouts. An exultation. She worries the words between the humid meat of her thighs.
© 2010 Roxane Gay