I call out anxiously;
Hoping that somebody, anybody;
Would hear me and say something;
But all that I get in return;
Is the echo of my own voice;
Followed by dead silence;
A silence too loud for comfort.
Those unpleasant moments;
When my voice bouncing back to me;
Being the only companion I have;
Reminds me of how irritated I feel;
When someone tries to make fun of me;
By repeating my every word;
And mimicking my voice;
I didn’t talk to have it said back to me;
The way I said it;
But to be replied;
Nothing makes me feel so alone;
Than the sound of my own voice;
Bouncing off the wall back to me;
Makes me wonder;
Am I truly alone;
Or is someone lurking in the shadows;
Watching me squirm with anxiety?
Do I whisper then?
To not expose my location?
Or do I blindly feel the walls;
To find my way;
When with every step forward;
The tunnel seems darker than before;
And a look back doesn’t help either;
And all I have is my voice and the walls;
What do I do?
I’ll keep calling out;
And make do with my shrill voice as companion;
Until someone hears me and responds;
I’ll keep moving forward;
Hoping I’d be found soon;
I’ll keep feeling the walls with my fingers;
So I’m assured I’ve something to lean on;
I believe my echo will find me someone;
Who’s looking for me as well;
As it will travel faster than my steps take me;
Soon I’ll hear a voice that is not mine;
Calling out to me as well;
Running out to me;
And leading me to the light.
© Josephine Amoako 2016