Mudvayne Alien Link Link

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.

Functionless. Feral. Free?

This body is a rental. This rage is a souvenir. 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. There is a rhythm in the breakdown