The Violinist and I decided to quit the calluses on our fingers

Ditch the eighteenth-century attic,

Cure the house of our notes

Our useless, unharmonious notes

Rid the sound from our souls

For the better, of course.

Throwing the bow and the case in the closet was the last part, before

The Transformation

Because now, the Reviver and I swept the streets behind our shades

Our glorious, majestic shades

and continue on to an outlet.

I peeled off the Violinist, picked her clean from my spectacular, shaded body

and officially plastered on the Reviver.

The Reviver and I purchased rosy cheeks from that outlet

and shimmering polish to go with my shivering gaze

That silver gaze I had my hideous holes set on for months

for years.

And now, the silver eyesight was mine. Shivering and breathtaking to the heart.

Next, I stole a mask—

—for the Reviver complained she had no more change to spare

—so that I could conceal the mark on my neck.

Courtesy to the Violinist.

As I stole more necessities, hid the obscenities that the Violinist had scarred me with

I noticed that the Flautist looked at me quite strangely

with that pinkish, sweet look of suspicion

and the Writer would keep writing such horrid words into the air, made them crawl over the cracked sidewalks, following me home

The Forgiver didn’t seem very forgiving today.

The Dancers were scattered over my lawn in their canary skirts, like small, fragile feathers.

But they wouldn’t dance, not this time. They just stared.

Inside the house, I still felt the burden of the Violinist—

and I crushed my eyes to the very blind holes they were before

washed away the makeup and the lies with some water

Killed the Reviver inside me

felt around in the closet, curled my fingers around a long object

Set the case up in the attic.

Polished my fingernails with rosin, until they were white as sawdust.

Gently raised the slender bow, rested it on the frail strings.

Wait for the Violinist the give the cue.

And so I play out a petrifying, beautiful ballad—a classical wonder of wonders

minor and acute, all precision.

And I think, that while the Flautist sings to the birds in the clouds

while the Writer pours intelligent themes and heartfelt language into the galaxy

while the Forgiver preaches jovial messages about love and life

while the Dancers spiral and fly their way to heaven,

I, the Violinist, will sit here in this dark attic.

Playing mellifluous tunes for decades to come, and for no one to hear.

I guess I have to anticipate for the calluses in my fingers to deepen to blood,

and wait to relish the next time the Reviver will change me.

Maybe then, the amends will be permanent.