My voice does not lie on the white couches and comfy throws of home decor websites.
My voice is not found casually tossed among the apples of the fresh fruit bowl in the spotless farmhouse kitchen of the food blogger.
My voice cannot be heard springing forth from the carefully constructed Pinterest board that features colors found only near the ocean on a bright spring day.
My voice comes from my puppy when I squeeze him just a little too tightly.
My voice is hidden behind the antler-less, somewhat crushed deer skull that hangs on my dining/sewing/office room wall.
My voice falls from the pages of the books that friends and family have given me that are filled with photos of mutant human embryos and dog-faced children and victims of elephantitis.
My voice spills forth from a thirty second video to Tim Gunn.
My voice is black and pink and sparkly and wears combat boots and is a bit tipsy on champagne and drives a hot little red sportscar.
My voice screams out in the screeching whistle of the teapot boiling at full steam.
My voice cares more about whether her bicycle basket lining should have rick-rack on it or not than when she’ll get to ride her bicycle again.
My voice clicks the box next to ‘free giftwrap’ and writes herself a love note when she orders a new handbag online.
My voice is mine and mine alone.
I will find my voice.
I will follow my voice.
Every. Single. Day.