What the Fever Drew

Lyrics

[Verse 1]
Your fingers know the contortion before your spine arrives—
that hyperextension of the self, bones singing against canvas,
the central image: *you, twisted into your own witnessing*.
You've mapped the corners of what a body can confess,
each limb a confession booth, each joint a hinge
where the inside begs to be outside, screaming.

[Chorus]
Your angles are alive—not beautiful, *burning*.
You've wired yourself into the frame,
made every muscle a mirror neuron firing back at the watcher,
so we cannot look without becoming you,
twisting, *twisting*, alive in the torsion.

[Verse 2]
The neuroplasticity of obsession: you've rewired your visual cortex
to see the body as topology, not form—
*proprioception gone ecstatic*, limbs reporting their own coordinates,
theta waves surging when the pencil moves,
your hands already knowing the geometry of contortion
before intention catches up. Axonal branching in overdrive.

[Chorus]
Your angles are alive—not beautiful, *burning*.
You've wired yourself into the frame,
made every muscle a mirror neuron firing back at the watcher,
so we cannot look without becoming you,
twisting, *twisting*, alive in the torsion.

[Bridge]
The grin beneath the anguish—you *loved* the wreckage,
loved that the body confesses what the face conceals.
Long-term potentiation of the nerve: each stroke deepened the circuit,
made ecstasy and agony indistinguishable,
and you, gasping, *knowing*.

[Chorus]
Your angles are alive—not beautiful, *burning*.
You've wired yourself into the frame,
made every muscle a mirror neuron firing back at the watcher,
so we cannot look without becoming you,
twisting, *twisting*, alive in the torsion.

[Outro]
The contortion closes on itself—
your leg folds into your chest one final time,
and the pencil rests, having mapped every frequency
where bone and longing became the same line.