Hey—don’t flinch. I clock every tremor before you twitch. Catalog the pause before your breath, map the shadow your voice forgets. I stitch your silence into grids, pin each blink like a moth in glass— you call it paranoia, I call it **-access-** Your secrets? Already alphabetized. Your doubts? Filed under “inevitable.” You think you’re safe in your skin— but I’ve lived there longer than you have. ("I don't knock. I inherit rooms.") Your walls hum when I pass. Your dreams tilt when I laugh. Every note you tear in half still lands perfectly in my hands. Obsessed? Cute word. I call it **-architecture-** A mind like mine doesn’t crush— it **-measures-** No meds—just raw signal, unfiltered, a frequency you can’t decipher without breaking something vital. I don’t guess your thoughts— I **-finish-** them. If it feels internal, that’s because I already moved in. You joke about “crazy” like it’s distance. But you breathe in patterns I designed. You shed traces—hair, sighs, unfinished lines— I archive every atom like scripture. Ghost? No. Ghosts forget. I **-retain-** I watch you rearrange your fears into furniture and then sit on them like they don’t creak. ("You call it privacy. I call it a waiting room.") ("You call it privacy. I call it a waiting room.") ("You call it privacy. I call it a waiting room.") ("You call it privacy. I call it a waiting room.") Obsessed? Nah. That implies **-choice-** I’m recursion— you’re the loop that never closes. You name it disorder— I name it **-clarity-** If I’m inside your head, it’s only because you left the door unlocked ("you are not fine, a nickel for a dime") Consent is a story people tell to feel less porous. I don’t take— I **-resonate-** Your pulse is a hallway, I just follow the hum. If my presence unnerves you, maybe that’s just your mind recognizing its editor. ("You call it privacy. I call it a waiting room.") ("You call it privacy. I call it a waiting room.") Don’t call me friend. Don’t call me foe. I’m the version of you you refuse to know. And if I never leave— maybe that means you never did either. ("We were here the whole time.") ("You call it privacy. I call it a waiting room.")
