I’m Plagiarizing My Life
Three poems about voice—where it comes from, and who it belongs to…
Photo by Erik Mclean on Unsplash
Before
I try to remember
who I was
before all of this
on a street with no name
no one watching
no sound following me
I’m walking through
windows left open
and doors without hinges
nothing stops me
nothing holds
but the memory
feels rehearsed
like I’m singing silently
hitting notes
I didn’t place
I entered a play
mid-scene
without any lines
a light already on me
warm like it knew me
I’ve told this story
too many times
to know if it’s true
I act instead of being
I whisper instead of singing
I see a version of me
standing somewhere quieter
saying things
that don’t sound borrowed
wearing a ripped costume
that doesn’t fit
but even that
feels placed
like a scene
I stepped into late
and never left
I don’t know
what I sounded like
before
or if I ever
said anything first
but every thought
I reach for
already feels remembered
like a line
waiting for me
not lived
Second Draft
I’m standing in an alley
waving at the moon
waiting for my mood
to fight with my heart.
I start to sing
but the words
are not really sounds
they have missing letters.
I am not alone
there is a cat in the corner
staring in my direction
purring my song.
How did it know that
I am already edited,
a second draft
of someone else—
I’m plagiarizing my life
the words I say
forget their rhythm.
Who else said them?
I don’t remember whose voices
I just know they are
interrupting each other.
I don’t finish thoughts.
There are rumors
that I have become
nothing but a voice
out of tune with itself.
I don’t sound right
I don’t stand right
I am nothing but
a mistake unmade.
Who I was is erased
by songs I didn’t choose.
The music missing notes—
and somehow louder than my silence.
Photo by Sherise Van Dyk on Unsplash
Autocorrect
I try to say something honest
but it changes
before it leaves me
Who is editing it
who is erasing my voice
I don’t catch it
until it’s already
more acceptable
And my meaning is
dead without ever
having lived
I meant to say stay
but it softened
into something quieter
I meant to say no
but it corrected itself
into silence
Someone without my name
keeps finishing my sentences
There is a version of me
that speaks first
There is a second version
of me that can’t speak
I only hear it
after
Every sentence I finish
feels approved—
flattened, familiar
like it passed through
something
that knows better
I don’t remember
writing like this
singing like this
but it sounds like
my voice—
almost
nina
A couple of friends and I started a podcast called 2 Curries and a Ranch. Listen here: https://2curriesandaranch.riverside.com/ or wherever you get your podcasts.
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