I play the piano. 

They say I’m good. 

They say I’m gifted. 

They say I’m like my brother. 

I want to be like my brother. 

I play the piano. 

I constantly practice. 

Nonstop slapping of the sleek keys. 

My fingers dance across them. 

Ivory and shiny.

The map is drawn out in black ink.

A step by step process

how to achieve perfection. 

The path is like the night sky.

So beautiful but so dangerous. 

Constant tapping of the pencil.
Keep in time. 

Count. 

Start over that was wrong. 

Tap. Tap. Tap. 

Again. 

Keep your chest up.

That was the wrong note. 

Your wrists aren’t round enough. 

Slap. Slap. Slap.

I play the piano. 

They say I’m good. 

They say I’m gifted. 

They say I’m like my brother. 

My brother has a new piano teacher. 

How can something I’m so good at 

be so scary. 

If I stop

who am I. 

I can’t stop. 

Try again. 

One more time. 

That was still wrong. 

Fix your hands.

Are you even trying?

My fingers don’t dance anymore. 

The ivory keys turned red. 

They used to say I’m good. 

They used to say I’m gifted. 

I used to play the piano.