[Verse 1] I keep my faces lined up by the door, Little plastic halos from the night before. One for “I’m fine,” one for “getting there,” One that never flinches, one that doesn’t care. Name tags hanging from their crooked smiles, Versions of myself I rent for a while. I pick one up when the morning hits, Snap it to my skull till the real one splits. [Pre-Chorus] But when the hallway’s empty and the house goes still, All those painted faces watch me fail. Hooks in the plaster, teeth in the wall— I don’t know if there’s a real me at all. [Chorus] All these masks on hooks by the door, Every borrowed face I’ve worn before. I’ve been switching skins so long, I swear I can’t remember what I look like bare. Every role I play, every script I took— Another dead face swinging on an iron hook. If there’s a name for what’s beneath this swarm, I haven’t seen it since before the storm. [Verse 2] I’ve got a smile for the boss, one for “just mates,” One that never talks about the things it hates. One that laughs off panic as a quirky bit, One that nods along while it slowly splits. You clap for the mask and you praise the pose, Never see the tremor in the undertow. I come home choking on a stranger’s tone, Peel off the day and dump it like a broken phone. [Pre-Chorus] The hooks keep filling while the walls close in, Every little costume made of borrowed skin. If I keep hanging up new versions each night, What’s left under all this stage light? [Chorus] All these masks on hooks by the door, Every hollow grin I’ve carved to keep you sure. I’ve been changing shape to match your norms, Now I just see empty hooks and storms. Every role I fake, every “yeah I’m good”— Another face nailed where my real one stood. If there’s a self that made it through this swarm, It’s buried somewhere under uniform. [Breakdown] Line them up. Name them all. “Golden Child.” “Team Player.” “Not Gonna Fall.” “Happy Drunk.” “Perfect Son.” “Fine At Work.” “Reliable One.” Watch them grin With their painted eyes— Every single one a weaponised disguise. [Bridge] What if there’s nothing underneath this stack? Just hooks in bone and a suit of black? What if the only honest shape I own Is the shaking thing that lives alone? So I strip them down, leave them where they swing, Let the nails keep every plastic king. If there’s a face that still feels warm, It’s the one that shivers in the heart of the storm. [Final Chorus] All these masks on hooks by the door, Let them gather dust on the hallway floor. I’ve been cutting pieces off to keep you calm— No more costumes sewn from my own harm. If there’s nothing left when the paint comes free, Then I’ll meet that nothing honestly. Better empty skin in a rising storm Than a wall of masks where my heart was born.
