awerysopelea - write my name

Tekst utworu

[Intro] They always put my name down. Funny. I never know whose name to write. [Verse 1] I’m the number under “call if something happens,” the spare key, last ride, two-a.m. traffic. I know who hates needles, who lies when they’re scared, who says “I’m fine” with their jaw locked there. I’ve picked up phones from bathrooms, talked friends down from bad news, learned which silence means “leave me” and which one means “don’t you dare move.” I remember birthdays I don’t celebrate, door codes, dog names, license plates. Everybody says I’m good in a crisis— Maybe that’s why nobody asks what happens when I’m not. [Pre-Chorus] There’s a little empty line on every form. Name. Number. Relationship. I can fill the first two. The third one— [Chorus] If I disappear, who gets the call? Who knows the way I take my coffee or which lie means I’m not okay at all? Everybody writes my name like I’m somebody’s way back home. But if they ask me who to call— I don’t know. I don’t know. God, I hate how small that sounds: I don’t know. [Post-Chorus] Call me. Call me. Everybody calls me. Just never for that. [Verse 2] My phone lights up— “Can you talk?” Yeah. Of course. I’m apparently open twenty-four-seven with no front door. I can make a joke at a funeral, make a room breathe when it locks up. Carry somebody else’s whole week like groceries with the bag ripped up. And that’s not bitterness. Mostly. I like being needed. Mostly. But there’s a difference between being the person everybody runs to and being the person somebody stays for. Yeah. That line hurt me too. [Pre-Chorus] Last winter, fluorescent hospital light. Clipboard. Blue pen. Half asleep. A woman behind the desk looks up: “Relationship to patient?” … I was the patient. [Break] “Emergency contact?” … I DON’T— [Signature Drop] KNOW! [Instrumental Break] [Bridge] So I wrote my brother. Crossed it out. Wrote a friend. Crossed that too. Not because they wouldn’t come— they would. That’s almost worse. I know a hundred people who would save me. I’m still trying to learn who actually knows me. Not the useful version. Not the funny version. Not the one who says: “Yeah, send it over.” Me. The one who sometimes sits in the car after getting home because going inside feels too quiet. [Final Chorus] If I disappear, who gets the call? Who knows I turn the music louder when I’m trying not to think at all? Everybody writes my name. I used to think that meant I wasn’t alone. So if they ask me who to call— Wait. Give me the pen. I know. I know. Maybe I’ve been asking it wrong. If something happens— call them all. [Final Lift] THE ONES I CARRIED. THE ONES WHO STAYED. THE ONES WHO KNOW MY WORST DAMN DAYS. And if that little line still scares me, I’ll leave it blank— but not because there’s nobody. Because one box was never big enough. [Outro] Name. Number. Relationship. … Loved. Write that.