The mirror doesn’t know me anymore. It shows a creature of angles—jaw too sharp, eyes too wide, skin stretched over a frame that was never built for this gravity. They call it "alien." But the mask was always there. I just decided to paint it.
I watch you through the visor. You talk with your smooth hands. You laugh with your even teeth. You love with your conditional mercy. And I think: How do you stand the silence inside your own chest? mudvayne alien
Blisters on my tongue from swallowing their sun. The mirror doesn’t know me anymore
I am counting the atoms in my own scream. I just decided to paint it
Breathe in: 4/4. The machine heart ticks. Breathe out: syncopation. The ribs rattle like dice cups.
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.