I'm never fully comfortable opening
My mouth to speak.
I repeat. I repeat. I repeat
My order at the restaurant,
The confession of my love,
My plea with God for normalcy,
Before it ever leaves my throat.
I practice pronunciation with delicate
tongue flicks, and yet I always trip
over my words, creating nonsense
And so to save my breath,
I'll swallow as many frogs
As my taste buds will bear,
And I'll sew my lips up silent,
But maybe, one day, elsewhere,
You'll hear my voice anew,
Through foreign lips that read confidently
My forgotten and forlorn poetry.