Piano keys danced under her fingertips
as they assured her she was talented,
reminded her what would happen if she wasn’t.
A genteel brush of the keys played underneath.
She danced around a cream tiled kitchen,
so, so carefree—easy.
But the word “easy” changed its shape as she grew older,
and it molded into an ugly, drooping insult that was sloppily thrown at her.
People forcibly inserted themselves into situations
where they didn’t know the whole story—
they believed that it was believed they should be there—
stomping and squashing all sense of truth as she screamed at their stubborn soles.
But it all came crashing down,
and by the time she realized she was stained by their dirtiness,
everyone got up and turned away, left thinking it was all hers.
Not to say that she wasn’t messy,
but not messy in an easy way.
You couldn’t put her into a box, because she changed shape so often in protest to fit.
Because words stopped working.
This liquid state she was in,
all of this constant change,
she couldn’t label herself as easy
because she knew the full story.
But other people did,
and the pace and the volume of the congenial playing in the background spiked
into a harsh and dissident crescendo.
It did everything but make contact with her skin in its communication with her,
and it rattled around in her brain and shouted in her ears
when they said everything should be easier for her.
The consensus that someone is perfect
can hurt more than being told you are not,
for it is a constant battle
that does not simply end
with the truth.
So she picked away at hairs on the very base of her neck
as pieces of her pride were gnawed away as everyone began to question her readiness.
One day she woke up and it wasn’t easy for her anymore;
heavy hands fell on the left-end of the keys,
and deep, guttural screams omitted from the instrument
as she cocked her head interested in the rare release of honesty—
turning to this rampant and independent and raw excuse for music
because she figured something of the same likeness wouldn’t betray her.