Voice Dysphoria

I’d like a voice that feels like moss on the back of my throat or a large hand on the small of a back. A voice smooth and strong as coffee foam, rugged like mountain mist. The point is there’s a hive of bees in my throat that hum two pitches lower than my voice. They swarmed like constellations into focus and have built their comb where my voice box should sit. Their wings vibrate in short breaths from my lungs. A crusted-over guilt, they hide, they shapeshift. I would like to take out the apology in my voice. I would like to tell my friends what it feels like to practise speaking. To hold the sting of a noise behind your lips. The world is an unspoken agreement. Always loud or quiet. Empty or too much. I would like a voice that sits beside me like a cat. There are so many ways to have a conversation but more ways to not have a conversation.