I used to be beautiful,
Glossy,
And warm with the glow of untouched purity.
Propped up on my stand, for all to see,
To admire,
To desire,
But not to play.
I can’t remember feeling before feeling the touch
Of your hands,
Rough and warm.
Beauty be ******,
I relished the newness of your grasp on my curves,
That first rush
As your fingertips glided down my polished body.
It wasn’t long before you found my strings,
And joy turned to fear-
Furiously yet gently,
You loosened my taut wires,
And a motion of sound filled my once blissfully hollow form,
And what came from me but an alien, lyrical cry,
Flying from my strings as your fingers danced across them,
And to my horror,
You smiled,
As you watched my misery unfold.
This sound,
Unheard before now,
Rang out my fears and my naked desires for all to hear,
I couldn’t stop you,
And my soul could not be stifled,
As you forced out of me a bitter song,
A tearful melody,
Of hopes unfulfilled
And a vital *****,
Stolen and unreturned.
One hand round my neck,
The other pulling most painfully at my delicate strings,
You played me.
You monster,
You kidnapper,
You mad musician-
Take me home,
Put me on a stand,
In my case,
Hide me away,
Let me go.
Release me from my tiring song,
In any way you must.
Master,
End it,
Before there’s nothing left,
Before I’m dust.
I already lament the death of my beauty,
My once unblemished wood,
Now splintered,
Dull,
Warped by your unforgiving grasp.
And still my strings you play,
Relentlessly,
And with cruel dispassion.
Ravageur,
Finish my song,
And don’t play me again.
If you must,
Destroy me,
So I can’t sing anymore,
Feel anymore,
Destroy me,
Obliterate me,
Shatter me,
Break me,
Against your counter,
Your headboard,
The wall,
Until I’m scattered across your floor,
Oh, **** me,
Player,
Anything to be silent again.