Here, under mosaics of disco-ball refractions, here, on chrome-confetti-strewn sticky jet-black floors, reflecting our smeared makeup back, here is our makeshift sanctuary, our den and our corner of thrumming solace. Here, gripping condensed glasses, limbs draped over tattooed shoulders, lithe and limp and inconsolable, consider me ego fairy, sneaking black liner and glitter in my clutch adorning dancers with cheekbone hearts and smears of shimmer, our favorite sacrilegious necklaces flying off our necks and crushed under socialist leather, bass booming through our cells, too penetrated to notice. Pupils so dilated our irises ebb away, tiles of UV light loud in their brightness. Her wet mouth feels like diving under a wave, all womb and exhale, exhilaration and spit. Our liberation queer cocoon and commune, keeping out catcalls, devoid of threats, invisible forcefield powered by resilience, here is where needles draw blood for fun and E’s cackle echoes all the way to the back room, where drag queens spritz their hair, where dollar bills rain like blossoms in spring, where her latex bodysuit squeals beneath my grip. Spit guzzler, slicked-back dyke, step on me, I need you, let’s meet at Blue Moon, where angels in sundresses let you drag their cigarettes for free, where eighty-year-olds belt karaoke and two-dollar tangerine Jello shots oyster down our wanting throats. As far as we know this is an island and we’re its sole inhabitants; soon we’ll raise children foreign to slurs, with an endless cornucopia of godparents; if you look close enough, you might see a sheen on the windows, liquid spilling from borderless terrain, thick like semen, sweet like girlcum, tinging this world in light.