CLOSE THE CRACKS x DON'T PLAY ME, MF! (Mashup)

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[LYRICS]

[Intro]
I’m done explaining it nice.

[Verse 1]
It’s not a monster.
It’s a draft.
A thin cold line under the door
that finds me when the room goes quiet.

I can be solid all day,
handle calls, handle faces,
hold my hands like they’re normal.
Then midnight hits
and the crack starts talking.

Not screaming.
Not begging.
Just… offering.
Sweet voice, calm math:
“Just one. Just to sleep. Just to stop feeling your own skin.”

That’s how it wins.
It gets a meeting.
It gets ten seconds of “maybe”
and suddenly my body’s already moving
like it heard an order.

So I’m changing the rule.
No debate.
No courtroom in my head.
No more standing there
arguing with a fire alarm.

[Hook – spoken mantra]
Close the cracks.
No conversation.

Seal it shut.
No “just once.”

I don’t need saving.
I need silence inside me—
the kind I can trust.

[Verse 2]
I know my entry points.
Same hours.
Same emptiness.
Same places in the day
where I go soft in the middle.

I used to think the fix was willpower.
It isn’t.
It’s architecture.

I remove the easy paths.
I add weight to every wrong step.
I make the bad choice
take time
and noise
and effort.

Because urges hate effort.
They want a shortcut.
They want me alone with my thoughts
like that’s a neutral place.

It isn’t neutral.
It’s where old hands still live.
Old words still echo.
Old lessons I didn’t consent to
still try to run my nervous system.

And I’m not romantic about it anymore.
I’m not “working on myself.”
I’m reinforcing the frame.

Rebar.
Mortar.
Pressure-tested.

[Hook – spoken mantra]
Close the cracks.
No conversation.

Seal it shut.
No “just once.”

I don’t need saving.
I need silence inside me—
the kind I can trust.

[Bridge]
Some nights I still feel it,
that tilt—
the world turning into a vending machine
and my throat remembering the button.

I don’t posture.
I don’t promise forever.
I do the next minute.

Hands in cold water.
Feet on the floor.
Jaw unclenched on purpose.
Breath counted like it matters.

And I keep it ugly and simple:
If it speaks, I don’t answer.
If it asks, I don’t explain.
I move.

[Final Hook – spoken mantra, heavier]
Close the cracks.
No conversation.

Seal it shut.
No “just once.”

I’m not a problem to solve.
I’m a mind under load—
and I’m done leaking.

[Outro – dry]
I don’t negotiate with the draft anymore.

2313/7500

[LYRICS] [Intro] I’m done explaining it nice. [Verse 1] It’s not a monster. It’s a draft. A thin cold line under the door that finds me when the room goes quiet. I can be solid all day, handle calls, handle faces, hold my hands like they’re normal. Then midnight hits and the crack starts talking. Not screaming. Not begging. Just… offering. Sweet voice, calm math: “Just one. Just to sleep. Just to stop feeling your own skin.” That’s how it wins. It gets a meeting. It gets ten seconds of “maybe” and suddenly my body’s already moving like it heard an order. So I’m changing the rule. No debate. No courtroom in my head. No more standing there arguing with a fire alarm. [Hook – spoken mantra] Close the cracks. No conversation. Seal it shut. No “just once.” I don’t need saving. I need silence inside me— the kind I can trust. [Verse 2] I know my entry points. Same hours. Same emptiness. Same places in the day where I go soft in the middle. I used to think the fix was willpower. It isn’t. It’s architecture. I remove the easy paths. I add weight to every wrong step. I make the bad choice take time and noise and effort. Because urges hate effort. They want a shortcut. They want me alone with my thoughts like that’s a neutral place. It isn’t neutral. It’s where old hands still live. Old words still echo. Old lessons I didn’t consent to still try to run my nervous system. And I’m not romantic about it anymore. I’m not “working on myself.” I’m reinforcing the frame. Rebar. Mortar. Pressure-tested. [Hook – spoken mantra] Close the cracks. No conversation. Seal it shut. No “just once.” I don’t need saving. I need silence inside me— the kind I can trust. [Bridge] Some nights I still feel it, that tilt— the world turning into a vending machine and my throat remembering the button. I don’t posture. I don’t promise forever. I do the next minute. Hands in cold water. Feet on the floor. Jaw unclenched on purpose. Breath counted like it matters. And I keep it ugly and simple: If it speaks, I don’t answer. If it asks, I don’t explain. I move. [Final Hook – spoken mantra, heavier] Close the cracks. No conversation. Seal it shut. No “just once.” I’m not a problem to solve. I’m a mind under load— and I’m done leaking. [Outro – dry] I don’t negotiate with the draft anymore.

0/500