Lyrics

You mistook my stillness for softness,My silence for kneeling, my grace for your office.
But hear me now, just once, not twice, This voice is lethal, not sugar, not spice. To speak to me? That’s earned, not lent. And you, are bankrupt. Your credit’s spent. You lost your access when you dared presume. That your breath bore brilliance, not just perfume. You let mediocrity drip from your tongue. Like prophecy preached by the loud and the young. You circled your hunger like it made you king, But baby, bones snap easy when you pull on the wrong thing. I don’t bow to arrogance dressed in disguise, Or boys who bark when no real man replies. I don’t debate ants on the rise of Rome, Or beg for crumbs in a house I own. I make monuments moan beneath my heat, Then whisper her name where the ruins meet. While you—throw tantrums at ceilings of glass, Calling it war when it’s barely a gasp. Your speech is a patchwork, threadbare and torn, A chorus of quotes from men you mourn. You mouth ancient rage like it’s yours to wield, But your soul never bled on the battlefield.
Your voice? A scratch on the vinyl of time,
Repeating nonsense in rhythm, not rhyme.
Do you think volume replaces worth? That breath alone is proof of birth? My silence is sacred, my presence, rare, I don’t waste gold on thin, stale air. You whisper into silence, hoping it echoes you back, While I split silence open and make it speak my dialect.
No, I don’t seek your praise, your nod, I am not a petal, I am the god. I don’t grant access to small minds dressed in flair, I undress egos and leave them bare. To speak to me is not your right, It’s the spark of day against velvet night. Your voice is graffiti on sacred walls, Your presence a trespass that gallantly sprawls. So speak again, if theft’s your trade. Each syllable you spill gets weighed. And I’ll count each trespass you dared to begin, Scrawled at the gates you’ll never get in. Because this voice is not your toy, Not your fodder, not your ploy. It’s born of heat and holy spite. A mouth that moans and still will bite. This space? It drips with power and dare. Touch it wrong, to dust you shall return, I’ll burn you there. So if you crawl back through my door, Know you were never a guest before. I’m earned. I’m effort. Invitation-only. You begged at the ropes while pretending you own me. You chased what was never meant for your claim, Spoke to shadows that never knew your name. So take this stillness, delicate, unseen, A closing breath, seductive and keen.
So talk, if regret tastes like praise on your tongue, But I measure your voice like an axe being swung. And I don’t owe you a fucking thing. Not a nod, not a touch, Not a seat at the table you couldn’t afford, With hands that build nothing and a tongue that gets bored. I’ll burn the building, then move through the smoke, Dance in the ruins like every vow broke. I’ll light the match and call it desire, Strike it slow—then fuck on the fire.