i have never gotten used
to the beam
of a spotlight;
hot wax
drips
down the back of my neck
as i ready
the bow
of my violin.the ouroboros
of time
watches me
as the first
frigid
shrill note
seeps from the strings.it feels
rather lonely
beneath the hot, fluorescent laser
of a spotlight.my fingers begin to dance
more easily
across the frets;
my pace picks up
as the sounds
seem to intertwine
and settle
into place.i remember this melody
and i am sure that i have never heard it once
in my life.the crowd is screaming.
i pretend that it is only
bloodcurdling
out of sheer joy and thrill.i get the feeling that
i should be used to this.i look down at the violin,
the wax sticking to my skin
like gum on a hot
summer sidewalk
i am a telephone pole
during a thunderstorm
conducting chargeswatching my fingers
curdled blood carved beneath their nails
shakily let go of my ribcage,
skin torn open to make way for the music
tendons laced across bone
a twisted harpi feel nothing.
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PoetryA light buzzing distracts you from whatever you're doing. There is an old, weathered monitor on a table next to you. You could have sworn that it had just *appeared* out of thin air. Out of curiosity, you stare at it for a moment. The screen flicke...