There is something small and hard inside of me. Like a scab. Like dried blood turned to stone. And I wonder if this is what's left of my heart after it got the shit kicked out of it one time too many, or if the body can live on less than what it needs long enough to make itself crave a different kind of fuel. Something not so easily burned.

 

I am a broken-down upright piano with the casing removed. Here are all my hammers and strings. This is where the music is made. Seduce me into readiness, and I will build you a world in sound.