SICK CHIC PICKER

They're all fucking ghosts.
Crammed in my chest.
Barred by my ribcage.
Do you hear them hissssssing?
The body is a temple-
Mine is a cell.
This energetic memory
vibrates lines to my psyche.
Emotion trickles down these lines
controlling my vocal chords.
controlling my insomnia
controlling my violence.
They want release.
They want to live again.
Do I?
They move my arms to harm.
Take away the color of my eyes,
and push me on to the next potential condemned spirit.
A puppet of many masters I am.
Why try to fix the mangled mind, which mangled mine?