I’ve learned to cross borders without moving. My passport is my mouth,

stamped by each room I enter.

Some spaces ask for trimmed syllables; elsewhere, warmth is translated into polish, until even the mask

forgets it isn’t skin.

Each time I shift,

something hairline opens in my voice,

a fracture that grows.

No word is ever clean.

I carry them all, layered,

accent over accent,

truth beneath survival,

a map that unfolds itself

each time I speak.