My brain is a finely tuned A string
Plucking and picking itself out of tune
And though out of tune itself
Molds and bends to be in tune
Relative to others.

My skin like a mahogany fingerboard
Is constantly pressed
And squeezed and slapped
—Abused by my own hand.

My mouth and tongue are f-holes
Through which my inner vibrations
Are released into the air.

My heart is a bridge
Keeping my thoughts
In their rightful place
But also connecting
My body and mind.

My bones make up my sound-post
Holding me together
And providing the structure
Necessary to speak.

My feet are an endpin
Grounding me
And connecting me
To my surroundings.

Occasionally a bow comes along
Forcing me to do or say
The opposite of my desires
Moving me
And playing me
Like an instrument,
A toy.

I am a cello
Here to say what I want
How I want.
Though my strings need occasional tuning,
I decide how they sound
And when they sound.
Although I am sometimes used by others
For their gain
I am always in control of my expression.