I’m sucking on the blade of a samurai sword. Its thin sliver feels like swallowing a piece of ice accidently. Behind the glare of stage lights, the audience twitches and my sequins swirl as the sword snuggles behind the Adam’s Apple. Then mid show, mid shimmying, invoking the tease, she appears. A ghost hovering.
“Why?” She says.
“Because I’m bulimic.”
“Say louder, Mum. It croaked me.”
My eyes smarted, muscles forcing the blade skyward, like running the back of your hand up your arm. But I pushed the sword down, down behind the voice box into the stomach.
“Why?” She says.
“Because I’m bulimic.”
“Say louder, Mum. It croaked me.”
My eyes smarted, muscles forcing the blade skyward, like running the back of your hand up your arm. But I pushed the sword down, down behind the voice box into the stomach.
