I'M Not Stitching a Name Tag On This Just Yet

does my voice carry or just echo in my own mind I feel it, reverberating even when silent, my own judgement sends shockwaves over my skin over nothing, I recognise that is it my voice? narratives float down from somewhere landing, perhaps delivered by redundant storks from Disney films "this one is earmarked for you" "why?" you might ask but the messenger doesn't know it's just a basket with your name on a name you didn't even choose could we be drawn to our narrative? placed in a blindfold use our senses not accept those that resonate uncomfortably return them like library books I'm happy to pay the fine for this late return like a mixed bag of sweets we might taste them and discard those that are bitter making sure they aren't placed in our pockets to go sticky careful not to crunch through the good ones too quickly there must be a way