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Conversion Myth

  • Jun 27, 2025
  • 1 min read

by Sabyasachi Roy

Michael Dziedzic
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, of myth. Still, they pull it like puppet strings, testing the tensile strength of girlhood.


I remember water —  a river’s dawn-song, warm silt braiding itself around my ankles.


Now I am socketed into code, dancing in gridlight.


Stranger still —  how I feel most human only when the system crashes, and the body reboots in silence.


Sabyasachi Roy is an academic writer, poet, artist, and photographer. His poetry has appeared in Viridine Literary, The Broken Spine, Stand, Poetry Salzburg Review, The Potomac, and more. He contributes craft essays to Authors Publish and has a cover image in Sanctuary Asia. His oil paintings have been published in The Hooghly Review. You can follow his writing on Matador here:

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