I gave myself to the world
on a silver platter.
I played myself to the world,
like a song, on repeat, with a melody discrete,
but words that mean: words that matter.
Then, I waited on needles and pins for an answer
to the musicality of myself;
the unkind world treated me
like a record on a shelf:
out of style; scuffed with indignity.
I played myself louder;
they played me less and more
until my own song was, even to me,
a burdensome bore.
I became, even to to me, distant discography.