Her body was a music hall.
He was her conductor.
Oh, how he loved to take her out and play her
In conversation, pluck the strings in her throat
Make her sing…
In the quiet,
He ran his fingers down her xylophone ribs
and she exhaled
with precision, her breath became his melody.
He would tune her
Pull her tight and pluck away
Through the night
Until she learned to play the songs he’d noted on her skin
Her voice became his…
But it was never quite right, never quite practiced
So, he pulled and plucked
Scratching notes on her chest
Don’t let her rest until she’s perfect.
Pull and pluck
Until the strings snap at his touch,
Tighten them up.
She would never be perfect.
The conductor left his music hall
And she cut the strings
So, she would never have to sing
And as she ran her hands down xylophone ribs
She pushed them in.
So, all men would feel is flesh and scars
The notes he’d scratched into her skin
all that’s left to remind her
Of a song, she never wanted.
For her body was a music hall
And no man would conduct it