Your leftover heat drapes my nerves in counterfeit calm.
Blue pulses crowd the dark, chanting devour beneath my ribs.
Exit glitches Do it / Don’t, red cycling like a broken captcha.
If this seat cools, my bones will rat me out as an uninvited guest.

The projector hiccups daylight, bruising the screen with half your smile.
Rows unclasp like tired accordion lungs, wheezing out other people’s dreams.
My frost print double hovers mid-aisle, shrugging in slow rewind.
Prism dust drifts the length of my arms, each flicker spells hunger I’ve misplaced.
Backstage, mannequins trade lacquered faces and gossip about the living.
I gnash the silence until the jealousy hum settles in my molars.

Names blur at the edge of the reel; the credits forget who they’re naming.
A copper countdown taps my teeth—five, four, devour and the lights refuse to rise.

Your leftover heat drapes my nerves in counterfeit calm.
Blue pulses crowd the dark, chanting devour beneath my ribs.
Exit glitches Do it / Don’t, red cycling like a broken captcha.
If this seat cools, my bones will rat me out as an uninvited guest.

Outside, rain drills rehearsals on stalled cars; their alarms croon off-key hallelujahs.
I track your stride in puddles, stealing silhouettes the moon forgot to claim.
Streetlights peel their skin, one filament at a time, jealous of any steady glow.
Your reflection ghosts across shopfront glass, my pulse mistakes the mirage for touch.
I pocket the glimmer you leave on the curb: a matchbook labeled Almost Brave.

warmth isn’t borrowed—
it’s bitten

Your leftover heat mutates, veins it never paid to cross.
Blood turns cobalt, chanting consume where devour used to live.
Exit stalls on the captcha’s loop, Do it / Don’t / Do it / Don’t. a strobe for the guilty.
When the seat chills to truth, I shed my borrowed calm and spark a matchbook called Almost Brave.

Broken Captcha

An exploration of creating music with artificial intelligence. 

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Broken Captcha

𝚅𝚈𝙳𝟛𝙽