My Own Mouth

Press play.

There it is—

the hesitation before the second word,

the way I trail off like I'm asking

instead of telling.

I don't sound like that. I sound like—

but I do. I am. This is the proof

coming through the speaker in a voice

I have to claim because it came out of my throat,

shaped by the same teeth, the same lungs,

and somehow it landed out here

where other people can hear it.

They heard that uncertainty. They heard me

searching for permission in a syllable.

They heard the gap between

what I meant to say and what came out,

which is the gap between

who I think I am

and who I am.

The voicemail ends.

I'm still here, listening to the space

where the message stopped

but the shame kept going.