a number like a bruise on the underside of memory
a barcode tattooed on the back of a dream
And the echo of a name you forgot to forget
six legs of an insect crawling across the ceiling of thought
five fingers clenched around a stolen cigarette
five again, because repetition is punishment, is ritual, is comfort
three seconds before the door slams shut
two eyes watching from behind the mirror
one is the self, fractured, refracted, renamed
655321
not a number, but a sentence
not a sentence, but a silence
not a silence, but a scream with the volume turned down
the world turns in loops
milk drips from a broken glass
a Beethoven symphony plays in reverse
and somewhere, someone is laughing
but it’s not joy, it’s not mockery
it’s the sound of gears grinding in the machinery of remorse
I am not I
I am 655321
I am the sum of my subtraction
the residue of my rebellion
the ghost in the system
the system in the ghost
and still
the number pulses
like a heartbeat
like a countdown
like a name I never chose
but always answered to.