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.

Exoskeleton of the Self

And when the song ends, I don't come back to myself. I just find a different locked room to scream in.

This body is a rental. This rage is a souvenir.