I still feel you in the hollows, where the nerves forgot to die. A ghost in the machine, darling, but the machine’s still mine. They wired me up for soundcheck, plugged me in before I knew— static hissed like "hush now, baby," but the static hissed the truth. Oh, the stage lights were my sunburn, oh, the microphones my teeth. I bit down hard on every word, but the words weren’t mine to keep. So I cut the wires one by one, left the current in the dust. Now I hum in minor keys, just to remember how to rust. You can call it self-sabotage, you can call it growing wise— I just know my phantom limb still reaches for the mic. The kids all want their fifteen seconds, but the clock hands eat their young. I’ve got scars like old cassette tapes, spooling out what I’ve become. They say, "Darling, play the hits now," like I’m some jukebox in the rain. But the only hit I’ve got left, love, is the ghost inside my veins. Oh, the autotune’s a tourniquet, oh, the algorithms bleed. I pressed my lips to every lie, but the truth’s the one that feeds. So I cut the wires one by one, left the current in the dust. Now I hum in minor keys, just to remember how to rust. You can call it self-sabotage, you can call it growing wise— I just know my phantom limb still reaches for the mic. They’ll tell you that you owe them for the time they spent on you. But baby, no one owns a voice— not even when it’s true. So I’ll sing my phantom limb to the walls that don’t talk back. And if echo’s all I get, love, well… that’s the price of the attack.
