Lyric

My pride wears me like a borrowed suit

Threadbare lies in polished truth

I drink the silence, choke on the light

Even shadows argue which side is right

Contradictions bloom beneath my skin

A choir of doubts with porcelain grin

Fragile fury, velvet scars

A battlefield beneath the stars

So I burn in the shape of my weakness

Sing with the throat of a storm

No crown, no mask, no witness—

Still I rise in a body torn

Vanity carving its initials on bone

A glass cathedral I call my own

I kneel to nothing, I bow to none

But wrestle with the mirror till dawn

Let the fractures write the scripture

Let the ruins teach me fire

Every flaw becomes a teacher

Every wound a choir

So I burn in the shape of my weakness

Sing with the throat of a storm

No pride, no throne, no witness—

Still becoming, still reborn