Flashing lights and a thick cloud of cigarette smoke try to distract those from seeing the truth. It’s like it distract them from seeing the empty woman, or maybe they think she isn’t empty. Maybe they think she is full of the fantasies that play over and over again in their heads. Or perhaps that she was waiting all night for them. They fill the empty woman with whatever they want to. They fill so they don’t have to face the truth.
The truth that she isn’t full.
She is empty.
Hurting.
Lonely.
Desperate for love.
For a way out.
But the empty woman comes to a place where those things seem like a fairy tale that they will only read about. That she is not worthy of those things in its purest form. That these things couldn’t be reality for her.
Day after day the empty woman performs the same dance as the night before like a robot. Forcing a smile. Pretending that she isn’t empty. Hoping that this time pretending will actually work. Sitting next to those who came to see her perform. Hoping that this time they fill her with something pure and not out of selfish desire.
But still she ends the night empty.
Hoping.
Waiting.
Wishing for the next day to be different.
