Atlas

Ay, uh. I traced my name in pixels On a map that knew too much. Pin my mornings to a feed, Let the profile take the touch. Every turn was pre-cut. Every lane already named. I could hear the gridlock singing like it wanted Me the same. So I took the folder, pulled the pins from The page. Let the old route scatter off the Edge of the cage. I'm tearing up the atlas, tearing up the plan. Bone compass in my pocket pointing where I stand. Delete the route history, let the map forget my Face. I'm walking off the grid now, I'm making my own place. Own place. Uh, uh. Sever rooms and profile names stacked like Winter roads. Every click a little fence, every tap A load. I saw my life in categories, boxes, Tags, and slots. But the hands that held my Bearings weren't the ones they bought. So I tore the routing off from the back Of my skin. Let the static hierarchy fall apart and dim. I'm tearing up the atlas, tearing up the plan. Bone compass in my pocket pointing where I stand. Delete the route history, let the map forget my Face. I'm walking off the grid now, I'm making my own place. Own place. No more names in the margins, no more someone Else's roads. I got a bone-made compass and a load I Choose to hold. I'm tearing up the atlas, tearing up the plan. Bone compass in my pocket pointing where I stand. Delete the route history, let the map forget my Face. I'm walking off the grid now, I'm making my own place. I'm tearing up the atlas. I'm tearing up the plan. Own place. Step out.