Who Is Watching Who (written by Rayallas)

Written by https://suno, com/s/WfQI8WLZ8aVg99Qo Rayallas

V6-WILD

I know her by her habits, not her history, see?
The half-read messages, the cold cup of tea.
That little red notification number on the screen,
A digital manifestation of the places she hasn't been.
She says “later” like later owes her money, it’s funny,
Puts another hour on somebody else’s tab while it’s sunny.
Keeps a running total, an inventory of everybody’s misery,
But misplaces her own identity, clinically, physically.
I’ve watched her turn a warning into something she can manage,
Turn a wound into a lesson, turn a lesson into luggage.
And she carries it beautifully, stacking up the baggage,
Nobody notices the gravity or the weight,
When the posture stays perfect and you're walking up straight.

I don't follow her footsteps, nah, I follow the decisions.
The tiny intersections and the fractures in the visions.
Where a different fucking sentence or a syllable together
Might have shifted the environment and changed the bloody weather.
And every road keeps asking the same question on repeat,
Not "where are you going?" as you're pacing down the street,
But why? Yeah. Why?

WHO IS WATCHING WHO?! Is it me or is it you?
Is the hand that moves the piece the same hand that gets moved?
WHO IS WATCHING WHO?! I can read the residue—
Every almost, every after, every "I knew better" that I still walked into!
WHO IS WATCHING WHO?! Tell me something that is true!
Am I looking for the answer, or just another way to go through?
Who’s watching who?

Look, I know the architecture of her disappearing act.
No slammed doors, no grand exits, that’s a fact.
Just a gradual reduction in the volume of her presence,
Less opinion, less appetite, draining out the essence.
Less “I'd rather not,” until she’s completely silent,
A pacifist internal while the subtext is violent.
Until one morning she’s fluent in everybody else’s tongue,
Except the one in her own mouth that she’s had since she was young.
An excellent translator of other people's needs,
While she loses her own language, suffocates the scream.
She'll forgive a thing before she's finished feeling it, true,
Call it understanding, call it maturity for you.
Call it whatever gets the room back to normal, back to formal,
Just to keep the peace while the fracture is internal.

Then I find the paperwork. No date. No signature line.
Just my name already sitting there, frozen in time.
Terms of entry:
You will arrive without answers, naked and cold.
You will mistake some endings for failures, I’m told.
You will love things you cannot keep, hold them till they bleed,
You will outgrow the rooms you once begged for in need.
You will leave fingerprints on people who leave them on you,
And when the lights change... you return what was due.

There it is. The key. Not hidden, not earned.
Just waiting in the pocket of a coat that I burned—
Or forgot I was wearing. I turn the metal around,
A tiny piece of history making a heavy sound.
And suddenly the paradigm shifts, the focus is blind,
The question changes shape inside the back of my mind.
Not: “Who is watching who?” as the shadows align,
But—who the fuck have I been watching all this time?!

WHO IS WATCHING WHO?! Now the answer isn't clean!
It isn't me against her, it's the space in between!
It’s every self I’ve ever been, arguing, obscene,
The observer, the observed, and the actor on the scene!
The hand upon the curtain and the woman backstage,
Pulling on the strings trying to rip out the page!
WHO IS WATCHING WHO?! I don't need to know the truth!
Some questions lose their teeth when you let go of your youth!

The audience has gone. The room smells faintly of dust and rain.
I straighten the pages... numb to the pain.
Fold the contract. Return the key.
No grand speech. No cheap revelation for me.
Just a small bow to an empty room.
Then I open the door into the dark and the gloom.
Not knowing what is waiting... Which, strangely enough, feels like the end.

And somewhere behind me, the room starts to fade.
Just the ghost of a girl and the promises we made.

4397/7500

Written by https://suno.com/s/WfQI8WLZ8aVg99Qo Rayallas Written by https://suno.com/s/WfQI8WLZ8aVg99Qo Rayallas Written by https://suno.com/s/WfQI8WLZ8aVg99Qo Rayallas Yeah... There’s a version of me that I keep meeting in passing. Never introduced. No handshakes, no asking. Just a familiar expression in a stranger’s afternoon, A ghost in the reflection of a crowded room. Listen. I know her by her habits, not her history, see? The half-read messages, the cold cup of tea. That little red notification number on the screen, A digital manifestation of the places she hasn't been. She says “later” like later owes her money, it’s funny, Puts another hour on somebody else’s tab while it’s sunny. Keeps a running total, an inventory of everybody’s misery, But misplaces her own identity, clinically, physically. I’ve watched her turn a warning into something she can manage, Turn a wound into a lesson, turn a lesson into luggage. And she carries it beautifully, stacking up the baggage, Nobody notices the gravity or the weight, When the posture stays perfect and you're walking up straight. I don't follow her footsteps, nah, I follow the decisions. The tiny intersections and the fractures in the visions. Where a different fucking sentence or a syllable together Might have shifted the environment and changed the bloody weather. And every road keeps asking the same question on repeat, Not "where are you going?" as you're pacing down the street, But why? Yeah. Why? WHO IS WATCHING WHO?! Is it me or is it you? Is the hand that moves the piece the same hand that gets moved? WHO IS WATCHING WHO?! I can read the residue— Every almost, every after, every "I knew better" that I still walked into! WHO IS WATCHING WHO?! Tell me something that is true! Am I looking for the answer, or just another way to go through? Who’s watching who? Look, I know the architecture of her disappearing act. No slammed doors, no grand exits, that’s a fact. Just a gradual reduction in the volume of her presence, Less opinion, less appetite, draining out the essence. Less “I'd rather not,” until she’s completely silent, A pacifist internal while the subtext is violent. Until one morning she’s fluent in everybody else’s tongue, Except the one in her own mouth that she’s had since she was young. An excellent translator of other people's needs, While she loses her own language, suffocates the scream. She'll forgive a thing before she's finished feeling it, true, Call it understanding, call it maturity for you. Call it whatever gets the room back to normal, back to formal, Just to keep the peace while the fracture is internal. Then I find the paperwork. No date. No signature line. Just my name already sitting there, frozen in time. Terms of entry: You will arrive without answers, naked and cold. You will mistake some endings for failures, I’m told. You will love things you cannot keep, hold them till they bleed, You will outgrow the rooms you once begged for in need. You will leave fingerprints on people who leave them on you, And when the lights change... you return what was due. There it is. The key. Not hidden, not earned. Just waiting in the pocket of a coat that I burned— Or forgot I was wearing. I turn the metal around, A tiny piece of history making a heavy sound. And suddenly the paradigm shifts, the focus is blind, The question changes shape inside the back of my mind. Not: “Who is watching who?” as the shadows align, But—who the fuck have I been watching all this time?! WHO IS WATCHING WHO?! Now the answer isn't clean! It isn't me against her, it's the space in between! It’s every self I’ve ever been, arguing, obscene, The observer, the observed, and the actor on the scene! The hand upon the curtain and the woman backstage, Pulling on the strings trying to rip out the page! WHO IS WATCHING WHO?! I don't need to know the truth! Some questions lose their teeth when you let go of your youth! The audience has gone. The room smells faintly of dust and rain. I straighten the pages... numb to the pain. Fold the contract. Return the key. No grand speech. No cheap revelation for me. Just a small bow to an empty room. Then I open the door into the dark and the gloom. Not knowing what is waiting... Which, strangely enough, feels like the end. And somewhere behind me, the room starts to fade. Just the ghost of a girl and the promises we made.

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