The Strange Familiarity of Self

I played back a message, caught in the blur,

the sound of my voice like a soft-spoken slur.

It twists and it turns in unfamiliar tune,

like a stranger’s confession beneath a pale moon.

The crackle of tape spills the secrets I keep,

in moments of laughter or nights where I weep.

It twists and it knots, a story retold,

my voice, disembodied, feels foreign yet bold.