My Guitar

Creamy strawberry sherbet is painted on your curvy body.

You always feel cold and smooth in my hands.

You fit perfectly in my arms and feel calm and controlled under my fingers.

I remember when I got you.

It was Christmas and I was sixteen.

I slowly unzipped your black cloth case and squealed when I saw

How perfectly girly you were.

Immediately we began writing songs.

I tore you up with all of my high school heartbreak.

I wrote a song about prom, a song about a leather jacket, a song about *Ben.

You were the perfect melody to the lyrics of my diary.

I’m twenty now.

My relationships are stable, I have enough money to buy a mini Taylor,

And I hate to break it to you, but I prefer blue.

Even still, every time I walk up the stairs and into my bedroom,

You are resting against my sunflower chair,

Asking to be played.

Even with your scratches and dents from run-ins with my dresser

And your old steel strings that need replacing,

Your sound still resonates

Clearly through my parents house

And into my sister’s room

At 3 in the morning.

*name changed for privacy

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