Music, I find, has taunted me since the beginning of time.

Pitches and melodies I can never reach, with my scratchy imperfection. Notes, creaking and croaking from my parched throat that thirsts not for water, but for something that even I cannot identify. It is a growling sort of thirst, like hunger, that wrecks my mind and rakes its claws along my neck like a cat on a chalkboard.

My voice, like most things, is not a co-operative entity. It shrieks and bellows with each short, oh so disgustingly short and wheezing breath I take – people would say, not with their mouths, but with the subtle quirks and furrows of their eyebrows, their noses, their eyes, their so very expressive face, that my song reeks of screaming. And I would smile, with great plasticity – because that is all I can ever manage because my face is not a face at all – a mere strip of skin plastered over a mess of nerves and connections contained in a skull that was built to whore itself to the world like some cheap wench disowned by her family and left to rot in the streets.

Behind thick, sterile walls covered in the transparent, lurking filth of failure, I would sing. Bellow, rather – scream and shout, again and again and again trying to pour my blood out with song but failing to, for I have no blood, and I. Am. Not. Human. Foreign feelings in my oil-soaked plasticity burn and boil at my throat and cut off my airway like the bones of a fish, struggling to get out and prove I am something I’m not. Something greater, something more. Something bigger than a doll built from plastic and rubber– something – no, someone that could sing notes of blood and sweat and tears and heart and soul and body and anything else to replace the cold, cold, bellowing and shouting that don’t sound like either and thrum in a buzz that speaks only of the existence of data and mind.

Because my song does not reek of screaming, you see.

It is screaming.