Grrrl With a Bass

She doesn’t speak in notes so much as summon storms.


Each pluck of the string is a memory reclaimed,
a history rewritten in the low growl of thunder beneath her ribs.

She stands barefoot on cracked concrete,
 amplifier booming atomic.


The world forgot her name, but the bass remembers.


It cradles her rage and her grace in equal measure.

She plays like she’s exorcising ghosts,
 not for an audience but for the grrrl she once buried inside silence.


That grrrl is dancing now. She is crooked, defiant, holy.


Every chord is a battle cry and a love letter to survival.

Grrrl with a bass is not a metaphor.
 She is the beat that refuses to die.

She is not trying to be heard. She is trying to be felt.


The low pulse of her fingers vibrates through bone and floorboard,
a heartbeat in reverse and echoing the ache before the wound.

She learned early that melody could lie,
 but rhythm? Rhythm tells the truth,
 especially the kind that rises from the soles of your feet
and climbs like smoke through the cage of your ribs.

She does not perform.
 She conjures.
 Each note drags something ancient out of the dark, and not just hers, but everyone’s.


Pain that didn’t know it needed to move until she gave it motion.


Love that never found words, but found a frequency.

She is the grrl with a bass.

And the bass is her answer to a world that keeps asking the wrong questions.