In the Dressing Room
by Lola
I leave my real name in the dressing room
next to my fake lashes and cheap perfume.
The lights are hungry—
they only love me
when I shine.
My knees are sore,
hips bruised from learning grace
the hard way.
Every spin takes something—
a breath,
a thought,
a little more of the girl who came in smiling.
But when the music leaves,
I rise.
I wear my pain like perfume.
I make it beautiful,
because that’s the job—
to turn ache into art
and sell it by the minute.
When it’s over,
I take off my heels,
set them beside my bed
like relics of someone stronger.
And in the silence after,
I listen for my name.
Sometimes,
I still hear it.









