I can feel it growing in in my ears.

I imagine the release of steam, moist with quiet in the absence of pressure. Uncomfortably wet.

I can hear “me too,” way ahead of me, and louder than the whispers behind my back.

I can see the light and dark ahead and behind. It’s an unsettled grey, really.

I imagine the tongues wagging and lashing on my back as I move forward, stinging with the price of courage.

I can smell the stench of betrayal. An odour so pungent that I imagine the taste of reasons right leaving bittersweet flavours in my mouth.

I know how late I am to the party. Lizzo rubs it in telling everyone, “It’s about damn time.”

I’m welcomed anyway.