I hate the sound of my voice.

Those inaudible contractions,

anchored in the wet depth

Adam’s Abyssal Apple

Swallowed whole and sunken


In the darkness, Original sin


in dance, until they swoon

to the beat in unison-

Vox populi, vox me

Lapping up the edges of slippery meat.

Sugar-rot serotonin,

The most inhumane flu


I hate the sound of my voice.

Bearing histrionic tantrums,

I purge the saliva of wicked tongue

Coating teeth like daggers

The most angst-filled octave

quick to inhale,

slow to digest


I hate the sound of my voice.

Invalidated exhalation;

Upon deaf ears I hear

Upon mute voices I speak,

Imitation at its finest, its Ottoman.


I hate the sound of my voice.

Like contrived agents of mercy,

Collapsed, sticky vibrations

In concert, they echo praises

Resonating melodies,

A sing-song hymn,

Barely audible

Until death, do they part.


I hate the sound of my voice.

Before thought meets reason;

a house without home

The marriage of speech and sound,

Separated by flesh,

received and wound


I sprawl out to you,

Arms to tips,

Legs to toes,

Star-shaped, I uncurl

and lay a heavy seed

I bow to the fatigue

The fracture of bone.

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