I never heard you deform your voice.
Your male voice.
You never thought about how to use it.
It is a screaming, uncompromising voice.
The women around you
Manufactured their voices, and then there were two,
Three, four different ones. One for every character and occasion.
To deceive, not only themselves, but please everyone around them.
These voices stick wrongly in their throats, they hurt.
Nevertheless, they are used more frequently than their
Authentic voice. They need to sound non-threatening, cute, harmless, subdued.
A fog engulfs the real voice.
The puppeteered voices make me sick.
These are not my threads and yet, I’m hanging there, entangled.
My real voice would be taken seriously, listened to,
But you took away its right of existence, its intent.
You were scared that my voice would unhinge a revolution
Against you. I’ve lost its true sound for a long time.
My crouched voice, the fake dancing falsettos around it, stomping on it,
My genuine chords.
Soft-sided, wrong-hearted, soul-deprived,
You listen to the melodious artifice that irks my ears.
Women adapt their voices to your presence,
I’m not here to please anymore.
“Ophelia” by Gabriel von Max (1840-1915)