[Verse 1] I'm fucking tired, and I ain't talking 'bout the sleep that I ain't getting, I'm talking years of second-guessing every sentence, every question getting twisted into evidence, like asking for some clarity's a form of disrespecting. I tell you I'm exhausted just to give you understanding, not an invitation for another hard landing. I ain't snapping, ain't attacking, ain't demanding, then somehow I'm the storm that you were already planning. "Don't ruin my day." There it is. One sentence and the conversation shifts, now we're talking 'bout my attitude instead of what this is. Why? That's the crime? Four letters make you close the door every time? I'm trying to understand what's happening with mine, while you interrogate the reason that I'm asking why. I'm tired of every conversation turning into litigation, trying to communicate without confrontation, then watching simple questions become ammunition. And our daughter's in the middle. That's the part that fucking hurts. Sixteen years of life, knowing I should've been there sooner, should've fought through all the dirt, should've recognized the damage before damage became worse. I've had her with me twice. That sentence fucking burns. A father counts the moments when the missing years return. Every mile between us is another lesson learned, when your child needs reassurance but your hands can't reach her world. I can't walk inside that building. Can't sit beside her bed. Can't look her in the eyes and calm the noise inside her head. Can't tell her face-to-face, "Stay focused. Take your steps. I know you're fucking struggling, but don't surrender to this yet." So I'm left with conversations, updates coming through a phone, trying to father through the distance when my daughter's feeling alone. I wonder if she knows that every mile fucking kills me, that I'd rather hear her anger than have silence standing with me. [Instrumental Space] [Verse 2] And then I question myself. That's the cruelest fucking piece. "Am I becoming narcissistic?" "Am I damaging her peace?" "Was the question really wrong?" "Should I apologize at least?" I replay every word. Every pause. Every tone. Looking for some hidden monster I somehow haven't known. Because the last thing that I want is to become what I oppose, letting anger write a person that my daughter shouldn't know. Maybe that's what scares me. Not losing some debate. It's looking in the mirror after years inside this maze and seeing something staring back I don't fucking recognize someday. So no. I don't hate you. I hate what happens here. Different circumstances, but we always end up here. Same confusion. Same exhaustion. Same fucking atmosphere. I've seen this pattern years ago, even when we shared a home. Different walls, different arguments, but somehow same old tone. Different year. Different crisis. Different reason, same result. The situation changes. The pattern stays the same. I'm done trying to convince you that I recognize the frame. I'm more concerned with leaving here still recognizing my own name. [Instrumental Space] [Verse 3] I learned from my last love what peace is supposed to mean. Learned attraction ain't enough when something poisons everything. I gotta choose somebody who don't make affection sting, where communication isn't combat and compassion isn't strings. But you're my daughter's mother. That's the difference. There's no clean severing. There's a sixteen-year-old girl inside the center of everything. So what the fuck do I do when everything's outside my hands? When being Dad means loving someone from a different patch of land? When I see her hurting underneath what others don't understand, but I can't reach across these miles and physically help her stand? I don't need control. I need my daughter knowing this: Her father's still her father when her whole damn world gets thick. That distance doesn't mean I ever stopped giving a shit. Whatever happens between adults ain't hers to fucking fix. She doesn't have to choose. She doesn't owe me sides. She doesn't need to carry what two parents couldn't reconcile. I want my daughter knowing there's somewhere she can dial, and hear: "I'm here. Keep going. You've still got your life." [Long Instrumental Space] [Final Verse] And maybe that's enough when I don't know what comes next. Maybe being there consistently means more than being correct. Maybe I stop giving every provocation my respect, because every time I enter that arena I come back with something less. My mind is cloudy. My eye won't stop twitching. My heart fucking hurts and I'm tired of pretending it isn't. But I still know the person that I'm terrified of becoming... As long as I can recognize him, I can choose not to become him. So tonight... I don't need another answer. I don't need somebody blamed. I just need enough of myself left when the situation changes... and the pattern stays...the same.
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