[Intro: close, half-sung; muted guitar pulse] Say it softer. Make it clean. Leave some room For what I think you mean. [Verse 1: tight, pitched rhythm; bass and dry drums] Six o'clock. The table's laid. Old contempt on a clean white plate. "Your usual?" I nod again. The Clean Plate Club says, "Don't complain." Force fed the label, forget the face. Say it again till it takes their place. "Lives were lost"; the screen stays bright. Nobody's hands in the sentence tonight. I pass the phrase across the room. Someone else can wear the bruise. [Pre-chorus: melody rises; guitars leave gaps] My house voice sings before I start. Borrowed hunger knows my part. Benign taste. Then the aftertaste Gives the quiet order In my place. [Chorus: full band; shouted-sung lead, held melodic answers] ONE WORD! With a fist inside. ONE WORD! And the room takes sides. WHO HOLDS THE SCALE? WHO GETS TO DECIDE WHAT COUNTS AS A WOUND? WHAT COUNTS AS A LIFE? [Verse 2: tighter groove; two voices close in the room] "Come empty-handed." I came to win. You close the door to keep heat in. "I fixed your door." I make it debt. You say, "I thanked you." I say, "And yet..." Tare the bowl. Net weight comes clean. I leave your hours off the screen. "Nothing moved. Nothing fell," you say. I hear "nothing" and look away. "Somebody has to move." I rise. "Spoiled," my second mouth replies. The fridge hums somewhere below rest. You haven't finished speaking yet. [Pre-chorus: sustained voice over the pulse] A warning. A verdict. A reason to act. I swallowed them whole. Now I'm spitting them back. [Chorus: full band; same melody] ONE WORD! With a fist inside. ONE WORD! And the room takes sides. WHO HOLDS THE SCALE? WHO GETS TO DECIDE WHAT COUNTS AS A WOUND? WHAT COUNTS AS A LIFE? [Bridge: clean voices; exposed bass and guitar harmonics] Standing water by the sill. One mosquito. Neither hand is still. "Some mosquitoes are good," you say. I hear, "Let every one of them stay." "All mosquitoes are always bad." The web pulls tight on what you said. You said, "Careful." I heard, "Weak." "Leave me a little unknown," you say. I don't know how to speak. I watched your mouth. I missed your meaning. I heard my fear And called it you. [Breakdown: half-time grows from the pulse; melodic roar] WHO WROTE THE COOKBOOK? WHO MEASURED THE PAIN? HOW MUCH OF A SCREAM DISAPPEARS IN A NAME? ANTITHESIS TO IT ALL. I MAKE YOUR NO LOOK SMALL. A BORROWED NO. I CALL IT FAKE. MINE GETS A FLAG. YOURS GETS A NAME. [Turn: guitars sustain; close sung exchange] "A no needs somewhere to go." I point you toward the door. You stand there with your coat half on. "Wasn't no enough before?" Then I hear my own mouth Doing it too. Making you smaller So my words come true. [Final chorus: enormous melodic lift; second voice remains audible] ONE WORD! With a fist inside. ONE WORD! And the room takes sides. WHO HOLDS THE SCALE? MY HAND'S ON IT TOO. WHAT DID YOU SAY? WHAT DID I MAKE OF YOU? [Outro: opening pulse; space between the two voices] Say it again. Let me hear it through. My little yes can wait for you. Leave some room For what you mean. [The pulse continues for two bars, then stops unresolved]
