If voice was a maple tree,
then its branches and leaves would be rustling in the wind of a cold October
night and scratching the windows of the old haunted house.
If voice was my dad’s
muscle car, then it would be breathing deeply and menacingly upon ignition and
roaring ferociously when seeing a green light.
If voice was my driveway,
then it would be begging me for
moisturizer to fix its grey cracked skin and make-up to conceal its other
imperfections.
