'Songstress' by Caroljean Gavin

When you go to the thrift store, the day before your first big gig, you take a dress off the rack and hold it up to your body. You don’t know who wore it before you. You don’t know why they lost their love for that scarlet color, or the slink of the fabric against their hips. You don’t know where they live and why they won’t call their mother.

When you let a guy buy you a beer, you never know who he thinks you are. You don’t know what kind of beer he drinks at home. You don’t know when he cultivated this particular smile, all flash, no warmth, all diamonds, no wool. You don’t know where he keeps his exes. You don’t know why you don’t just buy your own beer and you don’t know how you’re going to get where you want to go without giving up way too much.

When you go to the party and hear your song rolling out of hidden speakers, you don’t know who can see you crying. You don’t know what you’re wearing. You don’t know if you were supposed to be born. You don’t know where all these people came from. They smell amazing and they’re smiling at you, tipping their glasses, tripping each other to trap you in adoration. You don’t know why, but you think of your mother, not about all the times she told you were going to make her a fortune, but the thing about wearing clean underwear. You don’t know how you’re going to get home. You don’t know how you’re going to get draped back on the hanger, hung back up on the rack.

You only know how to sing.