In the pit of your stomach,
the acoustics are rather terrible.
So all the secrets and worries sound a lot worse, vibrate with all the wrong tones, make you shiver as though you’re watching your favorite musician make a fool of himself/herself on the stage.
My one secret paces back and forth and I can hear its footfalls stretching upwards through my diaphragm, swelling painfully across my ribs before gurgling into the base of my throat. I cough. I think of him.
I wonder if, when I choose to let myself whisper, when I choose to bite down on my lip and let the acoustics be what they are, he’ll be able to hear what I need him to listen to. I wonder if he’ll place a hand on my stomach and feel how loudly the pit has been pounding; I wonder if he’ll know how much I wanted to tell him. I wonder if he’ll know that acoustics aren’t everything, and that I have beautiful songs to sing anyway.
