In my mind the music I write
is for an instrument that is not mine, unknown
to me. It cries and rings its wailing
tune and a chord of despair sings its way
into my core. I feel the pain
of the music I cannot write, the song of a million
cuts spreading its way through my skin.
Instead, my music plays through cracked sobs
with my instrument pressed
into scarred skin, tears mingling with blood
on the bathroom floor. I muffle it
so it remains my own secret, a song
for only me to hear. Music
makes no sense to me anymore, only
the sound of infection and dripping death hits
my ears. I look at my reflection, vacant, tracing
my used lips with blood stained fingers.
I am hollow.
No amount of heartsong
will fix those wounds.