The bittersweet moments
     that never wanted to stick
     tear like steel wool at his tongue.
The silver lights now blind him
     so his whole house is decorated with candles.
The smell of sweat makes him want to die...
The leather always feels too tight.
Still trying not to hear
     any screams, trying not to
     remember silken songs.
His makeup is hidden away in the bathroom cabinet,
     but the screen door won’t stop slamming
     in a particular, familiar rhythm
     that any other way would just sound like a door.
Any other way.
It could have happened
     any other way.
The door won’t stop reminding him,
     won’t stop rubbing it all in his face,
     begging him to find the chords to fit the rhythm.
The black and white keys feel equally cold.
Sometimes his foot falls on the pedal
     and he forgets
     that it’s there.
Sometimes he forgets...
     why
     he’s
Sitting on a piano bench
Hiding holes in his soul 
     behind sunglasses
Feeling his back ache from
     hunching over so long
Somewhere between forgetting
     and remembering.