Thank you for choosing our premium lifestyle package. My skin is shrink-wrapped. Tight. Clean. I don't remember when I last felt the air. My thoughts — bubble-wrapped, safe, small — I sell them. Piece by piece. Until there's nothing left to sell. My spine's a barcode. My heart — a tag. A premium model. Starting to sag. CONSUME. REPEAT. They promised: "This will make you light." The packaging is so bright. But I can't breathe. I can't breathe. Something inside is breaking. Buy me, break me, shelf me, fake me — Smile for the label while they remake me. Pretty package, hollow core — I was human once. Not anymore. Rip the plastic off my bones. Tear the labels from my soul. I'm not your product on the shelf — I don't know what the fuck I am. But I can feel it trying to break through. This human packaging is a lie — A silent, hollow, endless "buy". I won't consume myself. Tonight. CONSUME. REPEAT. My dreams are cardboard. Flat and neat. Stacked in a warehouse, cold and deep. My love comes with a user guide. A limited offer. Set aside. And in the mirror — a branded face. Leased happiness. A marketplace. CONSUME. REPEAT. I can hear it… under the foam… a heartbeat. Not a notification. A beat. I can feel it… under the gloss… a crack. Not synthetic. Not smooth. Real. Imperfect. Rough. I want my scars back. I want my goddamn scars back. Buy me, break me, shelf me, fake me — Smile for the label while they remake me. Pretty package, hollow core — I was human once. Not anymore. Rip the plastic off my bones. Scan this pain you can't control. I'm not your product, not your trend. This empty shell is at its end. This human packaging — a coffin. A debt I refuse to pay. I am not a product. I am a defect. I am the error. I am what they couldn't package. DEFECT. There's a crack. There's cold air. It smells like rain. Like earth. Like something I forgot I knew. It's mine. …transmission ends.
