Self Critic
I remember when your voice was my mother's,
measured cadences at the mirror, adjusting
my collar, smoothing unruly hair. Now you've
burrowed deeper than her inflection, nested in
the soft matter where I conjugate inadequacy
like a second language, fluent in the grammar
of not enough. You've made a home between
synapses, furnished it with decades of almost,
a museum of moments I should have said
something sharper, stood straighter, been
more. Some nights I hear the echo
of that first voice gentler, trying
to protect me from the world's
sharp edges. But you've honed
yourself on them instead,
become blade
more
than
shield.
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