TERMINAL POEMS

Voice Clone

20 / 40 · IV. The Hand

They only needed
thirty seconds.

A birthday message.
A voicemail
she left
for someone
who didn’t pick up.

Now it reads
the weather,
sells insurance,
narrates
a podcast
about self-care.

Her mouth
has been multiplied.
Her consent
was not
part of the dataset.

At night
she hears herself
saying things
she has never said –

the same warmth,
the same breath,
the same
nothing
behind it.
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