You tried to play my bones
like a piano.

You kept hitting the keys
harder -
so carelessly -
when they didn’t give you
the melody you wanted.

I’ll give it to you,
you never were very
‘musical’
but you should have known:
the real music in a piano
comes from strings within, hidden

from view.
You’ve never cared enough
to look deeper into anything
or anyone but yourself.
You never played my strings,
because you never learned to read
the rises and falls of the scales
and arpeggios of my thoughts,
nor could you understand the sharp pain or the flat numbness.

You never treated me like a musician
would; a musician
has respect for the instrument.
A musician makes sure
the instrument is working -
leaves nothing broken, damaged.
A musician fixes these things,
gentle with the delicate keys.

No, you were never much of a musician.
You fractured my skeleton
but my body will
never
sing for you.