The Voice That Isn't

In the break room someone asked

where I was from,

and I heard myself answer

like I was reading from a script.

The word came out wrong.

Or right. I don't know anymore.

But they said, "Oh, I could never tell,"

and meant it as a compliment

but it landed like a diagnosis.

My mother called last week.

Three minutes in, she asked

if I was okay.

I said yes.

She said, "You sound different,"

which meant: you sound like someone else now,

which meant: you've left me a little.

I don't remember when it happened.

Somewhere between packing

and unpacking,

between trying to fit

and actually fitting,

my voice changed.

The way I say certain words now

feels like I'm performing them,

like I'm an actor playing the part

of someone from somewhere else.

I catch myself sometimes

and try to find the old accent

in my mouth,

but it's gone.

Or I'm gone.