When I was young I use to slap myself when my chubby fingers pressed one piano key too low

I would dig fingernails into my arm after each missed catch or askew throw

Because everyone cried at being loved by God I would think of my dead cat to squeeze out a few tears, so the fact that I didn’t have a God wouldn’t show

I wasn’t a sick kid
I was just a tree
that didn’t know how to lose its leaves

I couldn’t seem to slap or dig the mistakes out
so I dug out happiness from my skin

Stretched it out thin like many strings on a violin
and attached it to my shirt with a couple of safety pins

Letting people try to strum and make some music
but the tune of my strings didn’t ring smooth and therapeutic
and they ended up only giving me bruises

And even though the little girl has grown
she just continues to hold dead leaves
of mistakes she can’t seem to let go

Nothing new can grow
just more lines on the bark of her skin
years have, and will pass like this
and she will continue to become hollower within