Stage Hands

Now for a blank white page, what they call “college essays”
thinking, full of the impatience and frustrations of
how, what, when, where, why, ….who….am I?
Just wait until May 1st - when you escape from one hell
To another, supposedly a better four years of your life, the BEST four years of your life
Chin resting on the illuminated laptop screen, wondering, why can’t I ever be good enough?
Tap away on those keys, flipping pages of the past, stroking the black and white keys fading away but not fast enough, the grandiose orchestral background featuring floundering fingers on Mozart’s piano concerto number 23
Luscious like chocolate, Vitali’s Chaconne, so dark and alluring, a kiss goodbye, heart soaring as fingers fly on the fingerboard, calluses black and blue, peeling away, hiding the scar on my chin - the one everyone asks about, but they’ll never understand it’s much more than
Saturday lessons of: “Spiccato, no ritardando there, tenuto, leggiero, stop speeding!”
Clock ticks five past midnight; whitish red hives erupt in the glow of unforgiving incandescent light, throat clutched by the bathroom sink, trying to breathe, the same hands, only minutes ago, violently gripping my bow, now shuddering like the horse hair grasped on metal strings
Deep breath. Count to three. Let stress and fear melt away in the limelight, free to breathe

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