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.