SONG

The wind whipped my hair.

The car flew down a hill;

I closed my eyes.

The driver flipped the radio on:

It was a SONG–

A song my mom wouldn’t approve of.

I wriggled in my seat,

The teenagers giggled.

“What, you don’t like it?”

I shook my head.

Of course I liked it.

It spoke to my heart.

It spiked through my blood

Like a beautiful poison

Made just for me.

The notes and rhythm moved my limbs

In a way nothing else ever had.

I was one with the music.

“Yes,” I replied.

“I like it.”

And I lost a bit of myself

That day.

Years later

A car pulls into the driveway.

I climb in

And that SONG

Is playing again.

I’ve changed so much.

I no longer feel guilty

Tapping my foot to the beat,

Convulsing in my seat,

Mouthing the words.

They speak to me

Like no other words can.

The music is a language,

My language,

A language I always knew

I would know someday.

And I can’t help but think

How different I am now

And wonder

If it’s good

Or if it’s bad.

Amanda

Published by Amanda Brown

22-year-old INFP who names inanimate objects, loves to laugh, and is a proud old soul. You can often find her planning out her next crazy project, hugging books, or telling stories about her day that *may* be a little exaggerated.

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