From a violin

You said my sound was too much

The resonance of my being filled the corners

before you could even step in the room.

That I crowded each molecule of space,

and left you nowhere to stand or breath. 

 

So I learned to play with the door closed.

Practiced in quiet shadows.

Kept my hands light 

And my notes small,

Playing so loosely 

that the sound barely grazed the air,

drifting like mist.

 

But suddenly I was too little.

I shrunk to insufficient.

And that was wrong too.

I had gone flat, gone hollow.

Left you nothing but an echo.

So you muttered about how I faded to nothing 

and what was the use of a quiet frame?

 

I spent a long time at the tuning pegs.

Tightening. Loosening. 

Pressing my ear to the body of myself

listening for a that pitch you wanted.

Harming my strings with the burn of my weak bow. 

 

But only I know what I sound like 

when no one is asking.

Late, when the house is settled,

I play the way I was made to play.

Whole. divine. and yes,

maybe remarkably wild.

 

I am tired of being played by hands

That reach for the pegs first 

instead of the strings.

My music might not always be beautiful

But it's still worth listening to.

It's honest. And it's mine.

​

-Nevie Jay