The Right Song

The music doesn't work if it doesn't hurt. Loud enough to fill my head so it sounds like it's coming from the centre of my brain. So it isn't just beating in my veins; it is the drum-beat heart-speak of my soul rippling under thin skin. When I hurt, the music flows out of my scars and wraps me in a cocoon of loud comfort. If my ears don't bleed and my heart doesn't seize then it won't heal me.

It's the whispers of the dead in my ears. Guitar reverberating through my history, a different note for each taste of grief. Multi-instrumental claws as the strings cut me until my smile can shine through. Maybe light will get through the ghosts to shine on my face, if I can just find the right song.

My voice breaks.My throat crackles with the voices of strangers who know the same pain. I thought words meant something but it's the cadence and the rhythm and the tempo and the melody and the buzzing in my ears but I can't sing the right sound that lines up with it all.

What does it matter if it hurts in the gut or the ears if it's a funeral song?

Eyes shut, body moving, tears come. There's something growing behind my ribs and it makes the pain more acute. It's the space in my chest that grew and grew when they left me one by one. It's the swallowed scream I never unleash that has been inside me for nearly ten years. When the music plays it is bigger and it is also easier to carry.

I want my ears to ring and my throat to burn and my palms covered in small eclipses. I want to dance till I can't see or be seen. My red shoes taking me off into the night where my ghosts will leave me alone and still always be beside me.

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