[Verse 1] You keep sketching my outline, handing me the pen to trace it true. Every mirror you hold up already knows what it wants me to. But I was never a blueprint waiting, never a question begging for its answer. I'm the pause before the sentence— not the silence, just the space after. [Pre-Chorus] You call it clarity. You call it coming into view. But every frame you build me was never mine to move through. [Chorus] I won't be finished for your comfort, won't resolve so you can rest. Call it stubborn if you have to— I call it staying unpossessed. Unwritten. Unwritten. Let the story go untold. I'm not hiding. I'm not lost. I'm just refusing to be sold. [Verse 2] I've watched you name the shapeless things and call the naming mercy, call it art. But a name is just a cage with better lighting— still a room, still keeps you apart. So take your ending, take your answer, take the neat conclusion that you crave. I'll stay the question mark that outlives every tidy thing you tried to save. [Bridge] Maybe becoming was the trap all along— the carrot dressed up as the goal. Maybe some things aren't unfinished. Maybe some things are just whole the way they are, mid-motion, mid-breath, never arriving, never less. [Chorus] I won't be finished for your comfort. I won't perform the last reveal. Call it fear, call it defiance— I call it choosing what I feel. Unwritten. Unwritten. Not a draft, not incomplete. Not asleep. Not undone. Just a story with no need to meet its end. [Outro] Go on, close the book if you want to. I was never between the lines.
