Sitting up here in a single chair
lips grazing cool microphone
fingers seeking familiar shapes
on steely vibrating strings
digging into my skin.
Up here I am allowed
to speak.
Up here I am allowed
to feel.
Up here I am allowed
to have my story.
Allowed to grieve.
To hope.
Up here I am myself. And someone else.
Up here when I open my mouth I sing
for you.
I sing like you’re in the room
watching me.
I sing like the melodies ripping from my throat–
unshed tears just a tremor
buried fire felt in the rise of melody–
could mean something to you.
Could convince you of the worth of love.
Could convince you of the truth
behind the unfeeling stars.