All That's Left
My best friend is my voice,
who calls for me when the dark
seeps through the
light I wear like a cloak
around my shoulders.
When my face is cracked and bleeding
from the whispering of the wind
in the alleyways
and on mountaintops,
my voice soothes the hurt and
blankets the pain.
My voice is my suitcase,
my mirror,
my only.
In broken cities where smoke unfurls like
dreams upon the sunrise,
my voice tells me to smile,
to sing,
to dance,
to pray.
I'm not okay with death,
but I am,
as my voice stays with me.
My voice goes where I go.
It follows the sounds of my
feet on the sidewalk,
and my heart in my mouth.
My voice talks to me when the
wind returns.
It scares away the vultures,
protects my body from the claws of
wolves.
It smoothes my hair and
rubs my back when the world is
frenzied and bare.
My voice is my only friend
when all that is left are
paper and bones.
Strip away the flesh and muscle,
the mind that overthinks,
and the heart that loves too much,
but leave behind a voice that
laughs in the face of darkness,
and screams amid the silence.