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.