She remembered the tubes.
Each pierced into her skin, never had she seen such beautiful masterpieces. She visualized violins.

She thought of how her neck would arch to fit into the bow of the violin, as if she and the violin could become one. And her heart beat so perfectly in rhythm you would think it’s music.

And she was called “Music”. Not because of how every step she took seemed like a theme song, but it was how graceful they were. As graceful as her mother’s fingertips along piano keys. But years went by and the music diminished. Like the love between her father and her mother, years went by with strange men, so many men. The smell of liquor—the heat from cold hands taking away her innocence as if she never had any to start with.

But she still had music.

Each whisper became a tune of sad resentful predicaments. She began to hate her theme song. Music turned into rage as the house shook with the taunting sounds of frayed violin strings. Images of burnt diamond rings, with nothing left but broken promises. Frames hung on white walls held no memories but nostalgia.

She still thought of music.

Each tune, each rhythm, each steady beat that seemed to match the beatings given to her mother by the same strange men. Every cry of defense, leave her alone, please stop, please stop, please stop, please stop, please stop–until “stop” had no meaning.

Too many years went by with bruised skin, black eyes, busted lips, strange men, needles, white powder, did I mention strange men? Her soft skin seemed to be the only thing they liked– no, loved to touch. And her mother found love between the tips of old needles and white powder. But Music never lost her touch.

No Music has a different type of tune now.

They said she learned how to play music while she was drugged, learned to play the pianos in a way that hid her wrists. She learned how to cut them in a way that wasn’t deep enough to kill her, but deep enough to feel a different type of bliss. Her music held a different type of pain. Music held more emotion than she ever did.

Who ever knew a flower could blossom in concrete?

Or how beautiful roses look on mahogany caskets? How sweet a simple love song is, how deep pain really feels, how much pain our body can really take. How much love still exists in dark souls, how difficult it is to find light in dark souls.

She spent too many nights with her head on damp pillows. Stained black, with way too much mascara, but she was still beautiful. And her music began to grow even more powerful.







Photo: Pinterest

Posted by:A'Isha Adams

Mind of a frantic poet. Ambition of an entrepreneur. The heart of an old soul.