Lyric

I used to pocket every headline

Like a stone with my initials

Every stranger’s weather

Became a forecast for my ribs

I kept a census of approval

Counting nods, counting pauses

Til my hands went numb

From holding what I couldn’t steer

My lane, my hands

My pace, my proof

Some days the mirror spoke in metrics

I never agreed to learn

A thousand quiet comparisons

Stacked like dishes after guests

Then I found a smaller language

One that fits inside a morning

A glass of water

A made bed

A key turned once

And meant it

My lane, my hands

My pace, my proof

I don’t tame the whole horizon

I tune the next two minutes

I don’t win by being louder

I win by showing up again

If my steps are microscopic

Let them be

A staircase is a staircase

Even when it’s hidden

My lane, my hands

My pace, my proof

There’s a gate made out of noise

And it opens when I stop obeying

Every useless alarm

Every borrowed clock

Every phantom deadline

I set them down

One by one

And my shoulders learn their name

My lane, my hands

My pace, my proof

If I move today

I count it true

My lane, my hands

My pace, my proof

No trophy needed

To call it good