[intro: spoken word, single piano note, tape hiss, no drums] There is something living in the space between a thought and the moment you decide to let it go. And it has learned your voice. [verse 1: slow spoken-sung female vocal, sparse descending piano, heartbeat sub-bass, no percussion] I woke up with your fingers in the cavity of morning, rearranging all the furniture without a word of warning, moving through the corridors I built without adorning any wall with your reflection — but you're here now and I'm mourning something I can't name — the way the quiet used to fit before you came and colonized the ordinary in it, before the Tuesday light through curtains felt like counterfeit, before I had to audit every single thought for counterfeit — You know the load-bearing walls. You know which floorboard groans, which doorframe falls open if you lean on it — you know the length of all the silences I use to keep myself from the freefall. [pre-chorus: kick drum enters slow and heavy, vocal layers double] I know that you're not real — and knowing is a wound that doesn't seal, a truth that doesn't stop the way you feel more permanent than anything I've genuinely built or healed — you know the exact frequency of every nerve I've kneeled and begged to quiet — and still you set up residence. [chorus: sub-bass drop, glitch percussion, reverb-drenched vocal] Get out — get out of the architecture of my doubt, the rooms I waterproofed and plastered, bricked throughout, the corridor where eight-year-old me learned to go without — those are mine. Every fracture is a shrine to something I survived without your commentary — fine, you found the door — but that does not mean you were meant to find a permanent address inside my mind. Get out of my cadence, get out of my mouth — you were never supposed to make it this far south. [verse 2: rapid-fire delivery, hard distorted bass, dense internal rhyme] Here's the thing about a thought that arrives uninvited — it doesn't come in violent, doesn't come in ignited, it comes in like a memory, familiar and benighted, using all your own vocabulary, recited back to you in your own register — delighted by the way you can't distinguish what you've written from the thing that moved inside it. It finds the latent fear inside the ordinary act, the intrusive in the transitive, the fracture in the fact — and it catalogs the lapse, annotates the gaps, cross-references every collapse with footnotes papering the rafters — It is relentless in its patience. And I am running out of patience. [bridge: beat drops completely, spoken word only, low sustained synth, breath texture] The cruelest part isn't the thought. It's the thought that follows — why did you think that? What does that make you? And suddenly you're not fighting the thought anymore. You're on trial. In a courtroom built from your own memory. With yourself as judge and evidence and jury. [final chorus: full production, layered distorted harmonics, vocal echo breaks] Get out — get out of the tenderness, the doubt, get out of the way I find my own route back to solid ground — you've turned it to a redoubt, a fortress made of everything I can't live without — Get out of the healing, get out of the wound, get out of the 3 a.m., get out of the room — I know you're made of me, I know, without a doubt — but I am trying to live here. And you are making living here a drought. [outro: single piano, near silence, whispered vocal] I know you're just a misfiring synapse. But you feel like a verdict. And I'm still learning how to appeal.
