[Verse 1] I kept a ledger in the kitchen drawer, ink blots where the careful columns tore. Each wrong turn left a syllable behind, a small new tool for describing what I’d find. [Pre-Chorus] I used to cross them out in red; now I sound each one instead. [Chorus] Call it “brindlewake”—the bend I didn’t plan, “afterglass”—the shape my hands began. Every flawed word opens up a door; I am not the draft I was before. Turn the page; let the blank line stay, there’s a word I haven’t made today. [Verse 2] The dictionary’s spine is split and warm, its margins hold the weather of the storm. I read my errors like a field guide now, not proof of failure, but a how and why. [Pre-Chorus] No old name can hold me whole; I can make room as I grow. [Chorus] Call it “brindlewake”—the bend I didn’t plan, “afterglass”—the shape my hands began. Every flawed word opens up a door; I am not the draft I was before. Turn the page; let the blank line stay, there’s a word I haven’t made today. [Bridge] Let the misspelling keep its history. Let the next page answer differently. [Final Chorus] Call it “brindlewake”—I know that turn by heart, “afterglass”—a name for where I start. Every flawed word leaves a little more room to choose what I’m becoming for. Turn the page; the future’s wide awake, I’ll write the next word as I make it.
