Wittlock's Monster by Khóra Ataxías

[VERSE 2 — Voice B (breathless, forensic, unraveling)]
Patterns twitch in the corners.
They blink.
They move.
They exude.
Evidence sketches itself
in erratic wording,
left-handed,
ink fresh and wet,
breathes through the fibers
like a trapped animal.
A clue is a claw wound with handwriting.
A wound is a map with opinions sewn in.

[PRE-CHORUS — collision of lenses (short alternating lines)]

[A:] Names bind.

[B:] Motives bleed.

[A:] Silence rinses.

[B:] Silence hides.

[A:] Language rests.

[B:] Language hunts.

[CHORUS — Monster (cold, choral, impersonal)]
I am the room you speak inside.
I am the cage that considers.

[A:] Names bind.

[B:] Motives bleed.

[A:] Silence rinses.

[B:] Silence hides.

[A:] Language rests.

[B:] Language hunts.

[CHORUS — Monster (cold, choral, impersonal)]
I am the room you speak inside.
I am the cage that considers.
Your fingers built corridors,
then you wander them blind.
Your voices wired shut my throat,
then begged me for clean cuts.
Everything has a register.
Everything leaves a scent.
I collect it. Consume it.

[POST-CHORUS — stage reset (whisper, brittle)]
Two minds,
one labyrinth.
Neither leaves clean, nor calm.

[VERSE 3 — Voice A (new rule, severe)]
A sentence arrives hungry.
It feeds on distinction.
Sharp teeth.
Softness layered in.
Every assertion gains weight.
It presses the floor downward,
until the building bends its joints,
and they creak and crack,
under expectation.
Precision is a kind of appetite.
Nothing escapes
with its skin intact.

[VERSE 4 — Voice B (new investigation, manic)]
Something twitches in the ledger.
A number rewritten backwards,
without permission.
A motive hides its own shadow.
A theory eats its very creator.
Ink congeals like blood.
Paper bruises.
Rooms lean in, as if listening,
wanting a confession
for the state of their walls.
Logic is surgery done awake.
No anesthesia.
No sutures.
Not always consented.
Always mirrors.

[VERSE 2 — Voice B (breathless, forensic, unraveling)]
Patterns twitch in the corners.
They blink.
They move.
They exude.

[FINAL CHORUS — Monster ascendant]
I am the instrument built from your gasps.
I am the ladder erected from your anxiety.
You crafted precisely
to tame the dark,
and fed it bones
until it grew a spine.
You granted me language,
and I granted you consequence.
You failed to rearrange 
for the sake of your eternity.
I obliged, yet you flail blindly at a locked door.

[OUTRO — small, bloodless, honest]
Ink dries.
Bones cool.
Voice chokes.
The house we built remains,
quiet, functional,
waiting for new tenants
with or without
their monsters.

[OUTRO INSTRUMENTAL]

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[VERSE 1 — Voice A (measured, austere, surgical)] A rule arrives without warning. A sentence without its weather. Meaning stands upright, arms folded, waiting to restrain. If a mark lands here— another vanishes there. Language keeps inventory. Nothing leaves uncounted. [VERSE 2 — Voice B (breathless, forensic, unraveling)] Patterns twitch in the corners. They blink. They move. They exude. Evidence sketches itself in erratic wording, left-handed, ink fresh and wet, breathes through the fibers like a trapped animal. A clue is a claw wound with handwriting. A wound is a map with opinions sewn in. [PRE-CHORUS — collision of lenses (short alternating lines)] [A:] Names bind. [B:] Motives bleed. [A:] Silence rinses. [B:] Silence hides. [A:] Language rests. [B:] Language hunts. [CHORUS — Monster (cold, choral, impersonal)] I am the room you speak inside. I am the cage that considers. [A:] Names bind. [B:] Motives bleed. [A:] Silence rinses. [B:] Silence hides. [A:] Language rests. [B:] Language hunts. [CHORUS — Monster (cold, choral, impersonal)] I am the room you speak inside. I am the cage that considers. Your fingers built corridors, then you wander them blind. Your voices wired shut my throat, then begged me for clean cuts. Everything has a register. Everything leaves a scent. I collect it. Consume it. [POST-CHORUS — stage reset (whisper, brittle)] Two minds, one labyrinth. Neither leaves clean, nor calm. [VERSE 3 — Voice A (new rule, severe)] A sentence arrives hungry. It feeds on distinction. Sharp teeth. Softness layered in. Every assertion gains weight. It presses the floor downward, until the building bends its joints, and they creak and crack, under expectation. Precision is a kind of appetite. Nothing escapes with its skin intact. [VERSE 4 — Voice B (new investigation, manic)] Something twitches in the ledger. A number rewritten backwards, without permission. A motive hides its own shadow. A theory eats its very creator. Ink congeals like blood. Paper bruises. Rooms lean in, as if listening, wanting a confession for the state of their walls. Logic is surgery done awake. No anesthesia. No sutures. Not always consented. Always mirrors. [VERSE 2 — Voice B (breathless, forensic, unraveling)] Patterns twitch in the corners. They blink. They move. They exude. [FINAL CHORUS — Monster ascendant] I am the instrument built from your gasps. I am the ladder erected from your anxiety. You crafted precisely to tame the dark, and fed it bones until it grew a spine. You granted me language, and I granted you consequence. You failed to rearrange for the sake of your eternity. I obliged, yet you flail blindly at a locked door. [OUTRO — small, bloodless, honest] Ink dries. Bones cool. Voice chokes. The house we built remains, quiet, functional, waiting for new tenants with or without their monsters. [OUTRO INSTRUMENTAL] [OUTRO INSTRUMENTAL] [OUTRO INSTRUMENTAL] [OUTRO INSTRUMENTAL] [OUTRO INSTRUMENTAL]

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