Three years of music classes sat me on "practice makes perfect". If you listen closely these days, hearts now beat the finest tune to the elegies of traumas, holding up hands to the skies before writing notes, your voice pitched highest screaming; For the records, in this merry of grief, I left a print holding up my phone to take pictures of my shadow where I forgot to leave my thumbprint on the wet cement of whatever you were molded from.

I told my mother I still build my spine as a chair for the committee of grief my heart was a ballot box for bill voting. Yesterday, this heart dropped my body heavily when I spread my arms to flight. When it hit the bottom, it made a noise like my mother's old chest. Its skin was an egg of broken words. I locked this piece in a flagged voice box. These traumas are anthems keeping my spine erect.