hand in hand remove our public masks, but the other Raven slips out of doc martins in scrap metal doorways; they are a fan of underbelly crowds, flowing applause on cement pathways spinning sounds that afford access to theatres of moneyed benefactors. I let Raven sport their dangerous mixes sounding off ambition, grinding dark goth scenarios, and write my script about the other side of growing up in suburban. Ours is a tense relationship, a ying and yang, each dancing across a stage; I, wanting rainbows to color my black and white life, while they slither out of Eden and sway from daredevil chandeliers.

Raven lives for late-night clubs under lipstick red lights, and the thrill of dangerous thoughts; adoring chic heeled laughter piercing the air like glass crashing. I on the other hand live for writing workshops and ballroom dances with a day’s happy ending cooking gourmet dinners for two. Once, I tried to escape and listen to Raven’s dark loud orbit drowning out my pulse.

For years I survived Raven’s anti Lilith grinding grunge of sharp fender strings churning femme possibilities that I was told could never be touched. Forgive her grand theatrics; she thinks herself an artist. I think it’s true she penned most of this, but I’m unsure— I sit in her shadow, just a line-break away from my spotlight daydreams hoping to fill fountain penned journals.

This other Raven dreams of limelight and hailstorms, with her face reflected and refracted in stage hall mirrors, while I pore over the ink of Letters to a Young Poet, Metamorphosis, or Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Dynamic though they are, queen of an entrance, they’ve got that soft spot for corners in literati dive bars. Their broken dreams, like smudged mascara, leave marks like smoke on a blank night for empty walls. See what I mean?

Raven, never much for stillness, left behind quiet nights and happy ending bedtime stories in her high school daze. Admit their charisma, and you’ll have an ally forever. They’ll send you roses from their dressing room (possibly true), and though she never learned to play the drums to bang through a tune, her soundtrack spins like an all-night DJ behind their mask; and while she lives on stage, year-round, in the theater of self-renewal, I remain their playwright.