The moon is shining and her tight braid s down in waves onto her bare back.  The shower water patters like rain but in the mirror she sees the sun.  She sings Kate Nash in the shower, but soon forgets the words.  Tell me how quickly the water went from warm and innocent to a cold stream of tears, blood, and bad memories.  She steps out and stares at the fogged mirror, realizing she has forgotten who she was. 

     As she gets dressed she thinks about him and how he left the day after her favorite lace panties were torn in his dryer.  Her narrow body barely fits in the space between the wall and the bookshelf, but it is her safe spot, so she plants herself on the hardwood floor anyway.  She pulls in her knees and uncaps a purple pen.  She writes eloquent words that make something absolutely disgusting sound almost beautiful, to which I say f*** that.  This feeling isn't art. 

     Every Monday she plays the delicate melodies of Chopin in her piano lesson, and on Thursdays sings scales for her vocal teacher.  All the while, she can't stop envisioning her body as its own dormant instrument, lying still in its casket.  "Fake it 'til you make it" was once her positive mantra, but lately it sounds more and more like a suicide mission.  The moon may shine, but never bright enough.  It can only chase the sun, so that is what she will do.