My voice is pencil, child of trees. Something that molts, and still remains. My voice is pencil, child of carbons. Something worth mining.
My voice is pencil.
It leaves traces in the softness that yields to it, accents of where it has been. It smudges toward the end of every sentence.
Child of chop, child of drill– stretched in all directions– trying to reach the depth and height of what came before.
Shaky, graphite-textured, gentle, inconsistent.
Determined, but easily faded. Smooth, but easily mumbled.
Soft, and heavy. Heavy, and quick.
Quick, before forest becomes memory.
Quick, before cave becomes echo.
Quick, before history comes back.
My voice is pencil, American-made,
desperately unlearning how it was built to erase itself.