Mudvayne Alien -
No. Not free. Just... other.
Let me be the spore in your clean room. The wrong note in your lullaby. The knuckle in the clockwork. mudvayne alien
I press my palm flat against the bathroom tile. Cold. Good. Pain is a language I still understand. The other one—the one they want me to speak, full of please and thank you and I’m fine —that one corrodes my throat. It tastes like nickels. The knuckle in the clockwork
There is a rhythm in the breakdown. Not chaos. Anti-chaos. A deliberate unspooling of the spine. I twist my limbs into knots just to feel the tendons sing. Pop. Snap. The sound of a puppet cutting its own strings. No. Not free. Just...
This body is a rental. This rage is a souvenir.
Breathe in: 4/4. The machine heart ticks. Breathe out: syncopation. The ribs rattle like dice cups.
No. Not free. Just... other.
Let me be the spore in your clean room. The wrong note in your lullaby. The knuckle in the clockwork.
I press my palm flat against the bathroom tile. Cold. Good. Pain is a language I still understand. The other one—the one they want me to speak, full of please and thank you and I’m fine —that one corrodes my throat. It tastes like nickels.
There is a rhythm in the breakdown. Not chaos. Anti-chaos. A deliberate unspooling of the spine. I twist my limbs into knots just to feel the tendons sing. Pop. Snap. The sound of a puppet cutting its own strings.
This body is a rental. This rage is a souvenir.
Breathe in: 4/4. The machine heart ticks. Breathe out: syncopation. The ribs rattle like dice cups.
