The Sound of My Own Mouth

The joke was told, I didn't laugh,

but then I did, broke myself in half,

became the person in the room,

left the real me in the gloom.

My coworker spoke, they all turned,

everyone laughed, and I learned

to split in two—the one who smiled,

the one who died inside, beguiled.

The reflection in the screen

shows me mid-laugh, in between

the person I am and the person I play,

the gap I can't explain away.

I am the person in the room,

and the person watching from the gloom,

and most days I don't see the divide,

but sometimes I catch myself inside

this moment of vertigo and doubt,

where I don't know which version is out,

which laugh is real, which smile,

which one's the broken, bent file.

The laugh keeps going all the same,

I'm complicit in my own game,

performing what's expected here,

while someone else is crystal clear,

watching from inside my head,

taking notes on every thread

of the person I pretend to be,

the person I've learned to flee.