The night started with a promise
and a cover charge.
Neon sweating down the walls like it knew something
I didn’t yet.
Bass thumping my ribcage into agreement—
yes, yes, yes,
this is where the week comes to die
and the real me clocks in.
There’s glitter in the air.
Not metaphorical glitter—
actual, airborne, cling-to-your-eyelashes truth.
Everybody here is somebody tonight.
Even the shy ones.
Especially the shy ones.
The DJ spins a remix of a song
that raised us.
Suddenly we’re all thirteen again,
singing into hairbrushes,
except now we’re grown,
we paid our own rent,
and no one’s telling us to turn it down.
At the bar,
a stranger shouts my name like we’re old friends.
Maybe we were—in another life,
another club,
another version of me who swore
“I’m just here for one drink.”
Laughter ricochets off mirrors.
Someone cries in the bathroom—
not sad tears,
the I finally feel seen kind.
A drag queen struts past like a prophecy in heels,
reminding us all
that survival can look like sequins
and joy can be loud on purpose.
On the dance floor,
bodies move like punctuation—
periods, commas, exclamation points.
Consent is a language everyone here speaks fluently:
a nod, a smile,
a gentle step back that says
I’m good, thank you,
and means it.
The lights strobe and suddenly
I’m dancing with someone
who smells like confidence and cheap cologne.
We don’t exchange life stories—
just sweat, rhythm,
and that electric moment where you realize
you’re not alone in the world.
You never were.
Outside, at 2:47 a.m.,
the night exhales.
Feet ache, makeup smudged, voices gone raspy—
we look wrecked
and holy.
We scatter into ride-shares and friendships and maybe-more,
carrying the same quiet thought home with us:
Tonight,
in a dark room with flashing lights,
we belonged to ourselves.
BradBastardley
