The Last Echo of a Plucking

I pluck my soul like a harp

and play a chord no one else can play.

Shocking that with all the categories

And all the boxes

I fit in

And don’t

All the ones they push me into

And I push through

And won’t

That this

The last bar

Of the last echo

Of a plucking

One that no one will ever hear in me

But me

is the difference between me

and everything that ever was.

The smallest thing.

How the only difference between cake and glue

Is eggs.

How the only difference between me and her

Is me.