Syntax for the Second Self

This body holds two of me— the wild one, and the one who pays for it. I pack every want into the shape of a pen, but from a distance ink looks more machine than magic. Those who glance only see gears, not the slowing rhythm or the misaligned clockwork of a heart worn thin. Even my hands grow tired of reaching. Now they lie still— doormat deities waiting at the edge of your scattered attention.