Pick

 
i am a full-blooded
back of a turtle
my edges – rounded
perfectly fitting with
the tip of your thumb
picking each argentine
string of your euphony
playing soft music
 
but that had been
for a while,
i was smooth-edged,
comforting, soothing
 
not until
nylon turned scraped
and red turned pale;
my edges became that
of a shark’s fin –
prickly, wounding, hurting;
the old tune went wild;
i can’t make you play
the same sweet harmony
 
but you held on until
your cuts stopped bleeding
until you lost all the blood,
the beat that have kept 
you holding
 
you had to let me go –
for my relief, yours
until you realize that
your fingers could play
that song,
ours,
yours
 
much better
without me

 

 

-v

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