Playback

The dentist’s waiting room is full of old news,

and I accidentally hit 'play' on the phone.

It’s a memo for work—the kind you’d choose

to ignore if the voice wasn’t clearly your own.

I say 'actually' and it’s a wet, sharp click,

like I’m trying to apologize for having teeth.

The green line on the screen is a jittery stick,

showing the panic that lives underneath.

It’s not me. Or it is. It’s the version that tries

to sound like a person who’s got it all right.

But I hear the small, shaky, digital lies.

I turn it off. I stay out of sight.