The Voice

The voice has been with me for as long as I can remember,

and I suspect that it was around even before that.

It is amorphous and chaotic,

appearing as my father:

I’m sorry, but I’m leaving.

I’m sorry we didn’t tell you that he was dying.

I’m sorry, but shouldn’t you be wearing a larger size these days?

I’m sorry, but why can’t you just choose to be happy?

The voice is sometimes so loud that I cannot hear anything else,

no matter who or what is trying to break through the din.

It is vicious and cunning,

appearing as my mother:

I’m sorry, we were protecting you.

I’m sorry, I don’t believe you.

I’m sorry, I lied.

I’m sorry, I don’t understand why you are so broken.

The voice only exists to steal moments of joy,

meticulously logging and filing away every slight and affront,

so they can be revisited as you are finally able

to feel the sun shining on your face again.

I’m sorry, but maybe if you weren’t such a whore,

this wouldn’t have happened.

I’m sorry, but if you leave, I’ll kill myself,

and everyone will know it was your fault.

I’m sorry I scared you.

I didn’t mean it.

The voice is cacaphonous,

like a hoard of 17-year locusts emerging from the ground.

but after decades of listening, I started to hear something new

cutting through their incessant drone.

I’m sorry. You are brave.

I’m sorry. You are worthy.

I’m sorry. You are loved.

And even if just for a moment,

the voice is silenced.