Playback

My boss sent the recording at four.

I pressed play and heard a voice

thin and sharp, a stranger's choice,

someone wearing my mouth, wearing me hoarse.

I played it again.

The voice again.

That person again,

speaking words I remembered but can't explain—

not me, not quite, something too thin,

something like me with the real part caved in.

By the third time I was listening for proof,

for the catch where the real voice breaks through,

where something true shows through,

where I'd recognize myself, some proof

that the inside matches the outside,

that I'm not listening to someone else

wearing my words like a borrowed coat.

But it didn't break.

Just that stranger staying.

Just the thin sound.

Just the version of me

that the world receives,

that doesn't match the one I carry inside,

the one that feels true.

I stopped listening.

I sent the email back.

I didn't mention the voice.

I didn't mention the moment

when I heard myself

and became a stranger to my own sound.