This Voice

This anger voice of mine is
cutting edges of the room
into wilting forms. This voice
in dialogue with this mass
of brain twisted strands
curled on top of my head.
The dialogue of lies, trying
to hide what matters, as if
what matters is always important
enough to hide or as if
hiding really works. My voice
hides nothing from those who love
me or even those who don't. You
get it, don't you, that certain voice
that doesn't match this mouth,
this tongue, these lips? I  assume.
I must.You don't say it. Another
dialogue, a bargain with
maybe, later, never. I would
never tell you yours. Is it that bad?