The speaker describes turning their own memories into something digital and disposable: burnt onto cheap CD-Rs, then stacked around the body like walls. The discs shimmer with blue and purple light, so the speaker sees their own reflection from every angle. It feels like a coffin, but also like a snakeskin, something shed and left behind.
The mood is claustrophobic and self-absorbed. The speaker admits to loving "false narratives and dead dreams," preserved perfectly but badly written, which suggests a habit of clinging to the past even when it is unreliable. The last two stanzas turn physical and uncomfortable. To "molt," the speaker cuts their mouth and slides the discs in, and the scratching sounds painful and distorting. The ending, with a stomach sick on "corrupted checksums" and "lossy thoughts," suggests a cycle of swallowing and repeating damaged memories, with no clean escape from them.