tension

Here I am,
Stretched out like a guitar string,
And you are the player.
You twist each tuner
Tighter and tighter,
Carefully turning each knob
Until rings out
The perfect pitch,
Pleasing to your ear.
My tone rises higher
With the strain.
Rapid vibrations
As you strike me,
Controlling each movement.

Here I am,
Suspended above every fret
In increasing tension-
The instrument that you use
To write your sad songs.
I yearn to be free,
But what song can I sing
Without the striking of my strings?
How can I be anything
Without you, my heart-
My tormentor.
Without you is the most empty silence,
And I might almost prefer the pain.
Each chord I play
Is tuned perfectly
To the sound of your malevolence.

Here I am,
Pulled taut across the neck,
Stiff and spiteful,
And held in your hands.
At the mercy of your fingers,
I play your music.
Oh my heart, your beat
Is the rhythm of my vibrations,
But why does your beat
Feel like a beating?
I am stretched so tight
To be what you like.
You told me that music was freedom,
But your song is hate,
And it pulls me so tight that I might break.
You're something that I can't escape.