Identity on the Line

Someone asked where I’m from, my tongue felt like lead,

searching for words that I wish I had said.

The way I adjust, like a chameleon’s hue,

depending on rooms that I enter, it’s true.

I’ve faked through my laughter, my stories, my roots,

as the rhythms of speech twist like time in pursuit.

And with every conversation that drags on, I’m lost—

a voice borrowed, fading, reflecting the cost.