I’ve always busied my voice,
painting pictures with my tongue,
whether in bed, humming softly,
or before those who taught me
to use my speech as a shield.
My voice has been a knife,
bleeding pleads, raspy and swollen,
as if each phrase is a sentence
I use to protect the fragile things
that hide within me.
Sometimes I wonder
if my voice is really a knife
or my own reflection in the mirror,
framed in silence, aching to be free.
My voice has also been a palette,
silent colors spilling from my lips.
Soft blue studders,
scarlet screams,
plum laughs,
lime-colored lies,
staining my mouth with emotion and music.
It’s seasoned with liberal acids
and outspoken spices,
burning through my throat,
feelings wedged into vocal cords,
a flicker of hope
slowly stringing them out into words.
