trumpet practice

i played trumpet only for a year.
it was like holding a monster 
by the lips. there was never any where safe
to practice. angels were always listening
& pleading with me to get better.
the notes thrummed through our house's walls.
on occasion i would play outside. 
& it always brought storm clouds. 
i would have to cover my eyes to get them
to go away again. i was in sixth grade. i was 
so sick of having a throat. i stopped saying
aloud what i was thinking. the big question,
"will i ever feel at home in my body?"
some kids played soccer. some kids wore 
eyeliner perfectly. i bought a dollar store 
dark green & smudged it around the corners
of my eyes. lopsided. the trumpet voice came
like a metal shout. i don't know what i thought
i would ever be able to play it. maybe it was
wishful thinking. like "if i choose a loud instrument
maybe i will be as loud as i feel."
years before i had played the oboe.
which i made sound like a sick trout.
still, it seems now like an instrument 
much more suitable to me. the trumpet always felt
like trying to hold someone else's tongue
in my own mouth. in band, most of
the other trumpet players were boys. 
they played with their mutes. pretended i was 
not at the end of the row with them.
i imagined myself inside their bells,
the rush of sound & air blowing across my skin.
everyone once in awhile when no one else
was home though, i would have
a chance to play a few notes that felt
like my own. a brash call to the orange sun.
my body, a corridor of mouthpieces.
eventually, i laid the instrument to rest. 
practiced for the last time. still, worried about
my bones & their spit valves. 
the boys kept playing as if i were never there.