it warbles. it’s got gravel (sometimes), like the scrape on your leg that’s taken some of the playground as a souvenir. it’s young, but sometimes i can hear the sixties in it. it reverberates off of the shower curtain and glides down empty hallways.

i love my voice. i love the sound of it, the way it slips along guitar strings and falls into the microphone. i love how easily i can express myself, and how conversations ebb and flow with fluidity. i love this language, but i also love the way foreign tongues feel sliding over my lips.

there is strength in my voice, my vocal chords tighten and relax as i yell scream cry whisper. i can articulate the hollows of my heart, and i can manipulate words to float like ghosts or crash like airplanes.

each day it is more beautiful and every syllable is different. i sing, i write, i talk, i perform, i breathe, i am.

my voice.

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