even more than the pen
because it at least knows me
enough to turn its back when it feels.
what if the violin is just being nice and
i’m that old lady from anne rice
who loves its voice like a girl
who has a crush on the cutest boy
who would always smile
but never wave.
what if god only pretended to be cool and
never really forgave my false sins and
made it so i would begin to have hope
that i could make this sound
i hear in my head.
and what when i realize how i’ve been mislead i cannot
translate thoughts without words i heard
wrong when dreams whispered in my sleep i
am meant to keep to my own side of the cafeteria.