Let the walls close in. Blow the roof from its rafters. Slow down the thoughts that run from the tap. Windows cracked, let the breeze kiss my skin. Shut the moon off to make my world black.
Feed my hunger.
Light my fire.
Dress up my broken heart.
Jeff Buckley built my home. Tom Petty. Sia. John Bonham. Loretta Lynn too.
Turn them on and let the walls close in. Feel safe enough to be afraid. Push off the weight that steals my breath. Talk for hours without saying a word.
I don’t know where it began or how. Could have been the countless hours of cracks and pops and spinning vinyl. A childhood indoctrination. Me, the youngest. A tiny captive audience with lopsided bangs.
Rush. Led Zeppelin. Pink Floyd.
Don’t ask me about guitar riffs, chord progressions, notes. I don’t know.
I only know about the parts where the ice pick pierces my heart. La douleur exquise, the exquisite pain. Hurt me so I know I’m still alive.
Beth Gibbons. Nina Simone. Amy Winehouse. Billie Eilish.
Crush my soul again and again. Then fuck me, bathe me, and put me to bed.
I think, by now, you’ve noticed the locked door. I’m sorry. I don’t mean for it to be. Except for the times when I really do. I’m working on that. We’re working on that. Eventually, hopefully, I’ll let you in too.
I was born here and this is where I’ll die. I’ll have lived infinite lifetimes every day in between.
Dave Brubek. Mozart. John Coltrane. Queen.
I don’t know any of them. Yet somehow they know me. They built this house that surrounds me, protects me. This structure that keeps me from floating away.
Music is the house built around me, the place where I live inside of a dream. So please don’t ever wake me. I can’t bear for my home to be taken away.