Voices

I have many voices.

My first voice, always a surprise at first,
like getting the braces taken off
so that my lips now slide against my teeth differently
and my tongue is not prodded with alien wires.
This is the voice I use when I am alone.

With a girlfriend, my voice is a fishing lure,
jingling, and constantly being pulled in and out of water.
Underneath the current, it is deep
and then bubbles to the surface
and clinks against the hook in a high-pitched tinkling.
It is ugly and looks like a trout—
I am not trying to impress.

With a boy, I talk like cotton candy:
soft and pink,
my words melting on his tongue.

To a child, my voice is a tug-of-war
between ballerinas bobbing on two rafts.
Glitter, instead of words,
spits out and my tongue is a fluttering wing.

With a stranger, I speak plainly,
hurried car tires rolling over
parking lot pavement,
uninterestedly choosing a spot
between two lines.

In front of strangers, I play my vocal chords
quick, random piano keys,
sputtering nervous flats and sharps.

When a teacher asks a question
my voice is a quick switch
rolling easily down a green hill
and going one turn too far
into a graveyard,
crinkling dead leaves with my stomach.

Sometimes, my voice is a rain gutter 
catching droplets in my mouth
and spilling words away from my foundation.

Other times I sound like the cue ball breaking
the rack and scattering everything around me
in different directions.

I have many voices.
They deserve to be heard.