Lyrics

I have entered the room without time.
Where the air vibrates with accusation,
and even silence has sharp teeth.

Something has ruptured again.
Not broken—ruptured.
As if my mind is a dam held together by dental floss and denial,
and someone just whispered,
“You’re too much.”

And now the flood comes.

Observe:
The human spiral.
A creature of paradox,
equal parts feral child and philosopher king.
I diagnose myself in Latin
while simultaneously craving to bleed in cursive.
I am hyper-analysis fused with self-annihilation.
A scholar of my own dysfunction,
a surgeon with shaking hands,
cutting open old wounds to study their architecture.

I don’t trust anyone.
And I need everyone.
That’s the curse.
I stare at my phone like it owes me penance.
Did they see the message?
Did they ignore it?
Do they hate me now?
Or worse—are they indifferent?

God, I would rather be hated than unseen.
Oblivion is too quiet for a mind like mine.

My brain builds gallows out of gestures.
A blink becomes betrayal.
A pause becomes proof.
And I hang myself on subtext.

But then—suddenly—I’m divine.
I am immortal. Untouchable.
A symphony of genius and fire.
I could write scripture.
Start revolutions.
Rip apart the sky and demand the stars explain themselves.
I pace like a prophet.
I tweet like a god.
I love like a wildfire devours a chapel.

And then I crash.
And suddenly, I am the punchline.
A ghost with Wi-Fi.
A burden with a playlist.
A tragedy too dramatic to be taken seriously
but too broken to be ignored.

You don’t get it.
My moods aren’t “moods.”
They are mutinies.
My mind turns on itself like wolves in a famine.
I am either begging for affection
or weaponizing withdrawal.
Cling. Cut. Cry. Repeat.

Every therapist says: “Feel it. Sit with it.”
I sit with it.
I invite it in.
And it eats all the furniture.
It burns the photographs.
It stabs my reflection and says, “She was never real anyway.”

There is a violence in me that wears perfume.
A smile that precedes the storm.
A hunger so old it speaks in prophecy.
And all I want
—all I’ve ever wanted—
is to be held in a way that doesn’t feel like hostage negotiation.

This is not a cry for help.
It’s a eulogy in advance—
for every version of me I’ve had to bury
just to keep breathing.

And I still don’t know
if I want to be saved
or worshipped
or destroyed.