Inarticulate

We are often asked to share our true stories

To break bread with strangers

As our unadulterated selves

To contribute

Bond

To intertwine ideas

On the days where I wake up speechless

Silence is my truest self

But it is not enough

To smile

Nod

To meticulously listen

So, I become something less than truthful

An “almost, but not yet”

With automated responses

To placate

Please

To carry out my duty

When they ask to hear honesty, I often wonder

If instead they are searching for

Pleasant sounds to fill the air

To puncture

Wound

To mince persistent silence

It is our onomatopoeic chore

To scare away stillness

With passable truths