[Armenian Rap Harmonizing Melody] There is a war in the marrow, in the soft, wet chambers where hunger is born. A tearing, a gnashing, a split along the faultlines of breath — where one part of us would kneel, and the other would bite the offered hand. (We are not whole. We are never whole.) It is not a clean war. It is blood under the nails, teeth bared at the mirror, the shameful grind of want against the brittle bones of fear. (We are not whole. We are never whole.) We are battlegrounds dressed as bodies. We carry flags stitched from old wounds, marching against ourselves with drums made of ribs, beating frantic and low against a hollowed heart. (We are not whole. We are never whole.) One side longs to be devoured, to be wrecked into devotion, to be folded inside the furious hands of another — the other clutches its throat, whispers no, no, not yet, I can still survive alone. Ahhhh ahhhh oooooo (Ahhhh ahhhh oooooo) Ahhhh ahhhh oooooo (Ahhhh ahhhh oooooo) We are not home, Never home, (Never whole) Never home (Never whole) Oooo oooo ahhhh oooo
