The house was dark.

The inky kind of dark,

that makes it seem as though you’re looking at the world through your eyelids.

And I was tired and shaky.

I tried to peel back the shadows like stickers

but they would not come off the waxy page,

and I felt my knees cracking against each other

while I blindly walked.


Then I fell.

And metal strings tangled into my hair,

while glossy splinters coated my thighs,

and I was on the ground.


I struggled as the hollow body held my limbs,

vines reaching for my curls,

but gave in and submitted to its tinny prison,

until light flooded the house again.


That morning I faced my acoustic-attacker,

and the damage was too much.


So I’m sorry I broke your guitar,

and I’m not coming back.

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