I am counting the atoms in my own scream.
So I spit it out.
They ask: "Why the mask?" I ask: "Why your face?" mudvayne alien
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. I am counting the atoms in my own scream
So I build my own gravity. Spasms become sentences. The bass groove is a spine I crawl up. The kick drum is a second heart—ugly, irregular, alive.
And they are not finished with me yet.
The atoms are still counting.