Teeth grind in my mind, in the spaces between
my ears, where I hear all the thoughts you've convened.
I won't damage the gears of this new machine;
I won't dirty my hands, or your plans pristine.
I'm down, drowning in all the salt and saline.
My head won't emerge from the surface serene.
I won't come up for air; I won't flee the scene.
I'll be lying in state beneath your face pristine.