[VERSE 1] Fluorescent light hums like it’s grinding its teeth The clock on the wall lies in slow motion I’ve got your file open on the screen again Name, date of birth, case number, nothing about how you flinch at loud voices They said I should “focus on the positives” So I write: “engaged well in group on two occasions” I don’t write how you stared at the door the whole time Counting how many hinges between you and running Your mother called once this month, then hung up I mark it as “attempted contact: noted” I don’t mention how your hands shook after Or how you asked if it still counts when no one says goodbye I tick the box that says “de-escalation successful” Because nobody bled, nobody called the cops But the way you swallowed your words like glass Will never show up in these progress charts [REFRAIN] On paper you’re “stable for home environment” In my chest you’re a siren no one else can hear I write: “no immediate risk identified” And hope the ink forgives me when you disappear They’ll read: “plan agreed by all parties” Like that means you had a choice I sign my name under “case closed” And pretend that doesn’t sound like a gravestone in my voice [VERSE 2] You asked me once what happens if you don’t get better I joked about extra sessions so you’d keep breathing Truth is, there’s no budget for the kind of broken you are Just shorter appointments and thicker folders They love when I say “resilience factor” It sounds so much nicer than “this kid had to grow up in a war zone called home” So I type it out, let them nod in the meeting While you practise sleeping with headphones to erase the shouting I write: “responds to clear boundaries” I don’t write how you test every door just in case You’re not defiant, you’re doing fire drills In a building that keeps pretending it never burns The form asks: “support network?” I hover over the box like it might bite In the end I put “school staff” and “local services” Instead of “one tired caseworker who’ll be moved to a different caseload next month” [BRIDGE] Sometimes I sign off with “wishing you all the best” Knowing nobody ever taught you what “best” even looks like Sometimes I leave that line empty Because lying in handwriting feels worse than lying in print They say “don’t take it home with you” Like it isn’t already in my bones Every time I turn off the office light It feels like leaving someone in a room with the power cut [FINAL REFRAIN] On paper you’re “stable for home environment” In my head I see you sitting on your bed at 3 a.m. Staring at the wall where the paint is cracked Hearing my voice say “you’re ready” like I meant it I write: “no outstanding concerns at this stage” Because there’s no box for “I’m terrified, but the funding’s gone” I close the file so the system can sleep Then whisper your name once, so at least someone doesn’t
