His head is bent over the guitar, long, stringy hair the color of old bananas dusting across his nose. Calloused finger tips pull and pluck at the rigid strings. The sound resonates as the voice of a parent. It does little to soothe the child. His eyes are hidden by bruised lids, and the caverns above his cheek bones are filled with dark skin. Crouched over an old acoustic, but utterly at peace in this moment.

The music weaves through his body, pulling it upright with force. The chords tighten like stems and plunge through his planted feet to stand his tired body up once more. His palms beat against the guitar front, thump-thump-thumping out a rhythm to jolt his heart, and the blood flows through his empty veins to each half-dead limb, replenishing it. Restoring him.

His ears are still too tired to hear the elastic applause bounce off the stubby café walls. Eyes open, his iris is pale and glinting, like a strong golden-green beacon. He stares out over the stumpy and subdued crowd. Everything is muffled, like cotton is sprouting from his ear drums.  Standing still, he moves chapped, red lips to the microphone, and says his goodbyes.

The static of his voice is like the scratching on his arms, his voice is low and wounded. His words are cut and jagged. His lungs can’t feel the pain pouring out of his throat, but it’s raw against the chords inside the box. Vocalizing it, is numb.

“I…” no, he stops. His nails find the edges of the guitar strings, his finger prints fit into the grooves like a plug to a socket. Electrifying. “It’s hard,” he chokes, “hard to let you know.”

The room swallows so the walls shrink and contort to wrap him up, so tight. It’s thick and wet and quiet here. He imagines a mother’s womb. “It’s too hard to let it out. I’m afraid you won’t understand.”

This womb pulses around him with blood, and the black has an undertone of red. He closes his eyes against it. “I don’t think there’s a real way to show it. To show what it feels like.”

In nervous habit, he presses three fingertips to his lips, pushing the flesh against his teeth.

“D-do you know what it feels like, when you’ve had too much to breathe? When your lungs feel so full that you’re not sure you’ll ever find a way to let it all out?”

The womb relaxes, and he is left swaying on his own two feet. He’s taking it all in.

“And, you’re not quite sure how you’ll ever get a good breath again. It’s not like anyone ever taught you how to breathe. So how can you be sure you’re doing it right? I mean, what if, all your life, you’ve been breathing wrong?”

He opens his eyes again, and that beacon is shining now against the light and heat of the stage. He curls his fingers around the stand, his guitar hanging behind him now. He is standing alone.

“And if you’ve been breathing wrong, all your life, what else have you been doing wrong? Is your heart beating to some awkward beat? Can you ever help the way your mind moves? Does that make you wrong?”

Sweat prickles at the nape of his neck, where strands of hair dip into his collar. His voice breaks under the weight of his skin.

“What if I’m wrong?”

The womb contracts in a rush, pushing his eyes shut, his lungs down. He collapses.

His guitar breaks the fall, so he is bent backwards over the wooden shell. The strings shriek under his weight, crying out. Even in its last moments, the music tries to break his fall. His only shelter from the storm.

It splinters into tears.