The Inhibited Singer With No Hope

You speak into an echo, asking it to repeat itself. It fumbles to remember your remarks. They return to you distorted and almost inaudible. With a whisper, the lights dim. As abruptly, they flare to life and blind your closed eyes.

One single note stutters to life and buzzes in your throat. An open mouth funnels it upwards and gently pushes it in the air. It collides with a second violently projected behind it. They hold each-other and dance into the dust floating underneath the spotlight.

You still remember the dim-lit bars and disinterested glances, the feel of wood and string beneath your fingertips. You remember the love that freed your tongue, and the hope that kept it there.

They’re out there, screaming your name. A crowd of faces that you’ll never need to recognize because there will always be more. Now you pour out the bits of your soul that they’ve already polished for you, letting out the pain they’ve already glossed over and purified.

You don’t have to wonder if it was worth it. It wasn’t.

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