Mudvayne Alien _top_ -

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.

Let me be the spore in your clean room. The wrong note in your lullaby. The knuckle in the clockwork. mudvayne alien

No. Not free. Just... other.

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 press my palm flat against the bathroom tile