Rorschach Throat

They stitched me shut with dopamine thread

(I was spilling in color again)

Mouthing obsolete dialects

beneath the blistered paint of skin.

There are gods in the outlets.

They click when I blink.

Every socket's a whisper.

Every whisper: extinct.

I am the tremor you misdiagnosed,

a fever dream caught in a strobe.

I pulse in decimals and phantom tones—

don't call this healing.

I'm just in code.

Chlorine carousel, spin me again

on chandelier nerves made of spit and sin.

I wrote your name in the frost of my spine,

and it answered in hex.

Now I twitch on time.

Thunder teeth in my cage of bone,

singing hymns to the monochrome.

No one believes me when I laugh in Latin—

I'm just rehearsing my detachment pattern.

I am the tremor you misdiagnosed,

a fever dream caught in a strobe.

I pulse in decimals and phantom tones—

don’t call this healing.

I’m just in code.

Sixteen sparrows lodged in my throat,

each one chirping a milligram note.

Blood sings in decimal lullabies—

a vinyl sky spins counterfeit light.

I said I was healing.

I meant I was hiding.

I said I was stable.

I meant uninviting.

My shadow bled through the tiles last night.

They framed it as improvement.

I perfected non-existence in mirrors—

now even ghosts give me clearance.

Needles hum my lullaby.

The silence? Always lying.

The silence? Always trying

to bleed me back inside it.

I tried to exit through a thought

but the walls turned inside out.

Licked the lock and called it prayer—

no one heard. No one cared.

Except the voice behind my voice.

Except the echo with claws.

Except the echo with claws.

Except the echo… with claws.