This industrial silence fills the room
It came from the gears in my throat
The press that carved my serial number into the back of my neck
It tasted like metal
From the iron gated assembly line that we all hold standards to
Of living and dying and repeating
Again and again
Assembled with little care, defects thrown away
Silent voices
We did not make them ourselves
They were made to be shoved down our throats
Until we die from lead poisoning