Music Hall – A Poem

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

And slowly

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

Again…

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