by Sabyasachi Roy Michael Dziedzic They wove my hair into wires —  a twisted halo that sings in static. My scalp hums lullabies in 8-bit, the sleep-code of orphaned machines. I used to spin silk from moonlight. Now I splice circuits, map longing onto logic gates. Memory has teeth. It bites. The venom is sweet —  thick as syrup bled from old sins. I see through one eye: fractured glass, each shard a version of me buried under passwords. My mane stays long —  a relic of mammal,