On my way into work, the black-lettered byline touts, RED HOT EROTIC NUDE LIVE! UNCENSORED VIP COUCH DANCING. WELCOME MOLSON INDY FANS. Gold-plated brick exterior, a pocketful of cascading neon stars, and a girl – she lights up one leg at a time.

Working hard to keep you hard, says the DJ.

ABSOLUTELY NO TOUCHING: $10,000 FINE, says the sign at the back of the bar. It’s nestled between a plastic potted plant and a cylindrical aquarium bearing floating faux fish.

En route to the change room, the baby-blue hallway walls are littered with sloppily stenciled metallic stars. Gold and silver. Chipped tips. And housed within the belly of each star, a name: Misty. Sapphire. Jasmyn. Jewel. Justice. Nikki. Bubble letters, i’s dotted with hearts.

And we are a sky and the sky is the limit.

My back is always straight. My skin is always snowy. My lips are always dewy. And my nipples are always hard. I always lean in. My legs move in pieces. My back arches perfectly. I bend over with aplomb. The winged blades of my shoulders ache from feelings like flying. My spine is a beacon. Each vertebra whispers and clicks open, clicks shut, like 33 doors or memories or ongoing moments, indecisive tulips blooming, then retreating.

I am a topographical wonder. Intonation, incantation, intoxication.

Revealing everything and nothing.

And at work, a customer says, You have found yourself a fan.

I keep their business cards. Vice-President of Sales. CEO. Model & Talent Scout. I slip them into my purse along with fistfuls of $20s. I tell myself that one day I’ll make art out of these slim slips of cardstock. An intricately imbricated mosaic, alternately glossy and matte, minimal and garish, proffering mythological certainties – perimeters, locular inhabitability, things I think I know, like the simplicity of a clean break. There are no such separations. Only pools of space.

The graffiti on the brick wall outside my bedroom window says, BOYBANDS SUCK. GIRLS SUCK BETTER. TITS RULE. And when I wake, I want – new shoes, an espresso.

The sign outside of the church I pass on my way to Dufferin Station says, FREEDOM FROM TEMPTATION. THE RIGHTEOUS WILL NOT GO HUNGRY. And in my palms I hold the freedom to starve.

A sandwich board on the sidewalk en route to the thrift store promises AID TO WOMEN. My friend Lil tells me it’s an abortion clinic, kept quiet to avoid protests. When I ask how she’s sure, she pauses and says, The protestors. There is some debate, however. Rumour has it that the abortion clinic is a few doors down, that in fact the AID TO WOMEN is a Christian offering for ladies who don’t know any better. And Maggie’s, support for sex workers, is located on the same small stretch of real estate. Here on this corner, the options for women in need are endless. And I wonder, if I stand on this corner long enough, will I get confused? Lose my bearings? Will I default, revert, become amnesiac? Will I opt for salvation? Seek redemption? A rest? And suddenly every step is suspect and every suspect is a door.

When I was six, my aunt took me downtown. I waited outside while she went into a store. When she came out she scolded me. Hasn’t your mother taught you anything? Don’t stand still. You’ll look like a hooker. She taught me how to pace sidewalks with certainty, to always look like I had somewhere to go, even if it was just in circles. Now when I walk, it’s with purpose, but for different reasons. In the midst of any Q&A, salutation, signature, exchange, I anticipate the catch.

Hesitation has gotten me nowhere. And I can only think in bullets, a string of directives:

Invisible deodorant does not glow in black light.

And these are the spaces that make framing and composition possible. This is the sky, and the sky is the limit. And I love the way my hair falls across my eyes the most.

I carry a purse that doubles as a suitcase. And when I inhale, it is sharp.