Exoskeleton of the Self
This body is a rental. This rage is a souvenir. mudvayne alien
And they are not finished with me yet.
And when the song ends, I don't come back to myself. I just find a different locked room to scream in. Exoskeleton of the Self This body is a rental
The atoms are still counting.
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 when the song ends, I don't come back to myself
I am not from here. I was never from here. You gave me a name at birth, but it fits like a stolen coat. My real name is the pause between the snare hits. My real face is the smear of green and black under the stage lights—a warning label with no product behind it.