I hear that soft underbelly of a voice and I’m staring at you. I hear it in my asl teacher, my therapist, my sister. That biting of the tongue-that swallowing of teeth- that choking of spit that is not really choking, swallowing, or biting at all. It’s in the mauling from a dog that has never felt kibble or polyester or water from flimsy plastic. I heard it sometimes when we still talked and I couldn’t decided if I liked it or not. But when we talked yesterday, you spoke only in that voice. And rabies is infectious but rabies as a metaphor is your open underbelly opened in a C section because I’m trying to find something living in you but you’re already gone and I haven’t seen your face in a year and I don’t know what colors are on my hands but what I do feel when I press my palms to my eyes is softness.

(Featured image from Pexels)

Ash Wang
Ash Wang

Ash Wang is a writer and artist from Irvine, California. They like to write about anything and everything that is taking up space in their brain. They write to make room for more things to take up space in their brain.

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