I was who I was, what I always have been,
what I was always so certain about.
Everything is gone from me now
except my voice.
It runs in the same pitch, same exact tone,
no unique turn of phrase has been lost,
but the words which form and break out of my mouth
were foreign things to me.
The things I say now are as mine as ever,
yet how can they come out of me?
As surely as I knew exactly what I was,
what I was always so certain about-
surely these contradictions
are not coming out of me,
surely never me.