I speak in borrowed verbs, words already chewed by other mouths, but by the time they reach me, they’re hollow enough to fit. Every sentence takes a piece, not enough to bleed, just enough to thin me out until I’m grammar, not flesh. I am understood in fragments, consumed between pauses, kept only while useful to complete a thought. When the meaning is satisfied, the words move on, what’s left of me learns how to sound like silence.. L. Siré