Lyrics

I never knew silence could hum like a hymn
til she sat still, and the chaos grew dim.
No fixing, no fire, no floodlight glare—
just presence that whispered, “I’m already there.”
She didn’t dissect me with clinical cold—
she watched as my stories uncoiled and told.
They said I was “borderline”—too sharp to hold,
a chaos wrapped in skin too bold.
A walking rupture, a flood on repeat,
a puzzle with pain where the edges should meet.
But she doesn’t flinch when I swing or I split,
she just nods like, “Go on… I can sit with it.”
She’s not there to label the bruise in my tone,
just to witness the ache without casting a stone.
No clock in her breath, no rush in her tone—
just patience that made me feel less alone.
She cupped every quiet like it carried a prayer—
a silence that spoke: “I’m already there.”
I spilled like ink on her listening page,
dripped metaphors thick with ancestral rage.
But she didn’t flinch when my shadows took form—
she nodded like rain nods to thunderstorm.
No tiptoe tactics or empathy staged—
She walks in barefoot through my inner rage
She listens like silence is sacred, not weak,
like my madness is music I’m still learning to speak.
I’ve thundered through tears, sharp-edged and surreal,
shared truths that cut deeper than most dare to feel.
I’ve spat out storms, I’ve cried out in steel,
told her things that don’t sound “ideal.”
I’ve broken in front of her, jagged and loud,
spoke shame in a voice I was never allowed.
But she doesn’t rush in with patches or tape
just holds open space where I don’t need escape.
she doesn’t silence or clean up the mess
just lets the dark breathe without making it less.
And maybe that’s therapy—not being “repaired,”
but finally speaking and knowing you’re heard.
Not breaking apart to be made pristine—
but being held steady while falling between.
She sees the pattern without the shame,
knows that my fire is not just to blame.
She never once made my rage feel small—
she said, “Maybe the wound’s just trying to crawl.”
She doesn’t pathologize every flare,
she asks what it means when I rip at the air.
Not “what’s wrong with you?” but “what’s been done?”
She sees the story, not just the stun.
She bore witness not with textbook or test,
but with silence that clothed my unrest.
In the stream of pain, in the wreckage I am—
there’s one steady voice that feels like a hand:
Not loud, not loud—but safe and new—
the hush that says, “I see all of you.”
And she never once said, “I understand.”
She simply was.
And somehow…
I began.