Fluorescent lights erupt overhead.
The dance floor, disburdened of its crowd.
My tongue snakes the mouth of a man
twice my age whose name I do not know.
The bouncer. Expat American, California-slick.
I retract my hand from his slacks.
He zips, a paranoid tornado. Shit, he whispers.
Fake license stashed in my bra boasts a lie: 18.
Legal enough. My wet still glistening on his fingers.
It is 2:03 a.m. The unlit street echoes footsteps,
a swarm of men not yet ready to end their night.
Nameless yanks me from their carnivorous hands,
pulls me toward the back alley. Onward.
Miles. On foot. Through dust and feral dogs.
I do not yet have the word abduction.
Only shame. And, somewhere deep, survive.