The Voice

I read this poem and felt such relief  and acknowledgement … finally, someone out there knows what it feels like to live inside my head.

Poetry is my aeroplane


Inside my head is a voice

I don’t think it’s mine

It holds conversations –

In whispers.

I’m not privy to its plans

And I’m not sure I want to be.

Just yesterday I caught it snickering –

As I fumbled with my laces.

‘Take them out’ it hissed.

I knew what it wanted,

So I quickly hurried to the street

And the deadening hubbub

Of a peak hour bustle.

It was rude with its comments.

I was embarrassed.

Wondering if others knew

That it railed against their very existence –

Sometimes I confront it,

‘You can’t speak that way’ I’ll say.

It just laughs and tells me to fuck off.

I know it wants me to end it –

Take us both over the edge of a cliff,

Or maybe bleed into a hot bath.

But I’m not ready.

I’m hoping it moves out soon –

Not sure how…

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