Meka

Cradled in my daily leather coffin

I patiently wait, longing for her to take me out,

strum me violently,

as she has her way with the crowd.

 

She is part firecracker,

part vaudevillian marionette,

tied together with strands of electric red hair,

and a voice that can do 0-60 in under 3 seconds.

 

And I exist only for her amusement,

for her joy,

as she grates her fingers against me,

suffocating my strings

against my gleaming pearl frets.

 

She is pale against the club backdrop,

ghosted faced, soaked in sweat and corn syrup blood.

She is screaming, her voice demanding attention,

enveloping the drunken hum of the adoring crowd.

 

And I exist, a god in her hands

as her chipped nails scratch me,

commanding me to wail into the darkness,

our voices becoming one.


Dedicated to my sister-in-law, Ms. Meka Nism