I got
sixteen red bars criss
cross this arm 'cause
sixteen times I've
played this song on the forearm of my left violin.
Felt the blade bite my skin
as red half notes dot marble white sheets.
I felt my heart sing its melody
as I poured myself onto the page.
I remember the first time I played.
My hands shook with anticipation. I
was so excited,
my hand slipped on the first note.
The blade, grazed my skin,
cut just deep enough to keep me coming back for more.
I got a few scars from when mama
told me she didn't love me. Those scars
are hidden deep inside, etched into the very
fiber of my being.
I got a few more scars when the
kids at school told me I was too
dark to be something. I remember running
blind into bathroom stalls, hating these hands for what they were about to do.
Hating these hands because they were mine.
I played my solo for an audience of none, one if you count God looking
down from heaven begging me to stop.
I remember looking through fogged over eyes as the
world shuffled by. They saw my hand under the bathroom stall
and they just
kept
walking.
No one stopped to rescue me.
I got a few more scars from the first man I gave my heart.
He held on just a little too tight,
left marks where his fingers were.
He took my wrist and held it too tight.
He started to play but it wasn't right. He didn't
understand the
fine nuances of my
tendons and ligaments.
He pushed the blade too deep,
snapped chords and left me unable to play.
I think he left the deepest marks. They
still haven't completely healed, and some days
I can still feel blood trickle
down my arm.
I got sixteen red bars criss
cross this arm 'cause
sixteen times I've played this song on the forearm on my left violin.
I think seventeen would have been the end.