can you see my heart palpitate? it has to be visible beneath my skin. my pulse has risen to a crescendo, and how can you not hear it? the ivory ribs above the butterflies landing, heavy as hammer pangs, against my heart’s taut strings.
i tuck love notes and worries and pain into that little coffin– forgive me, the piano’s body is a case, not a tomb, and those notes are intentionally visible. do you know how much my fingers bled prying that weighted lid up? i propped it toward the sky so my heart could always see the moon.
i didn’t know, as i played, that other people would sit on the bench and thoughtlessly drop their hands onto keys. are the ghosts of their fingers why i’m so out of tune? the freedom and the vulnerability intertwined, always, with my organs displayed.
but make no mistake– i write only for me, and this is my body, my life. that crescendo is the gorgeous red of a smashed cherry, rose petal, wine stain, and i am alive and aloud as defiance.
//
Sweater: Free People
Skirt: American Eagle
Tank: American Eagle
Shoes: Mizz Mouz
Purse: Baggu
wallflower. 