a poem by Christiana Malizia
The voices on the Metro don’t speak the same language you do
And their lips don’t come together like ours did, either.
Although it is quiet on the train
I can hear your words burn in my ears
I don’t understand them
I can not ask you to repeat yourself.
I remember when we spoke the same language.
Or, I just knew how to speak yours
Your tongue would never learn
To be bilingual
Mine learned
To forget anything that
Didn’t belong to you
You and I never spoke
In sync with one another
It was your voice over mine
A beat too quick, and
A tightening grip around my throat.
Somewhere along the lines
You rewrote your dictionary
And forbade me from relearning
No matter how I pleaded
And
Still, the voices on the metro don’t speak the language you do
Your language told me
It’s okay
Without saying a word
The flick of a switch
The slip of a hand
Your fingers
Taste like gasoline
They light up my tongue
Just like it too
The voices on the metro don’t speak the same language you do
Your words cut deep
And I do not understand them still
They tell me it’s my fault,
I wanted it this way.
And even when I disagree
I forget that we don’t speak the same.