Twice.
By the end of “Carrion,” I sat there for a while, not knowing whether I wanted to punch something or write a song I’ve been avoiding for years.An apology for every fucking second I made her suffer, for never having the guts to say I’m sorry in person ...for still loving her and not apologizing.I’ve written about our love, our breakup, about us.I’ve written about the fallout, the image of me alone in a room drunk, holding onto the memory of her.
But none of them come close to the true damage—the part where I took someone extraordinary and made her feel like an afterthought.I never gave her the song that told her she deserved better.Not because I didn’t want to.Because I couldn’t face myself long enough to finish the verse.Because if I said it out loud, I’d have to accept that I was the reason she stopped waiting at the door.
I should at least write a letter asking for forgiveness for every moment I made her question her worth.For every time I turned away when I should’ve stayed.For the silence I fed her when she needed words.And for still loving her and not becoming the person she believed I could be, back when belief was still something she offered me without asking for proof.
I get that you’re mad.
I just don’t fully get who you’re mad at.
The world?Men?Yourself?All of the above?
There’s this fire in your voice—like you’ve spent years keeping your head down, and now it’s all coming out in one breath.
And it’s powerful.
But also—yeah.It rattled me.
Not because you’re wrong, but because maybe I’ve been one of those guys standing a little too far back, trying not to get scorched, while women like you have been walking through flames alone.
There’s something I’ve wanted to ask, and I know it might sound ignorant, but ...what happens when the music stops?When the chords fade and the room goes quiet—do you let the fire die down, or does it stay with you?Do you carry it?Does it change shape or just wait for the next chorus to pour through?
Tonight, listening to those songs, I didn’t just hear a playlist.I heard a life lived under pressure.I heard a scream that finally found its rhythm.And I don’t want to forget what it sounded like.I won’t.
If you ever feel like answering, I’ll be here.
And if not, I’ll still be listening.Tell me what set it off.Or don’t.Just know—I heard you.
Most of all, I won’t forget it.
Private Message| EchoZone Internal Chat
From: StringTheory27
To: DeadStrings
Date: May 2nd, 1997, 12:08 AM
Subject: No More Silence
You wantto know where the fire goes when the music stops?
It doesn’t go anywhere.
It just waits.It coils beneath your ribs.It hums in the silence.It stares back at you when you close your eyes at night.And sometimes, when you’re told to sit still and smile, it begins to smoke.
I’ve spent my whole, entire life being told to be the bigger person by men who could barely manage their tempers but expected me to manage mine.
By a father who emotionally disappeared before I was old enough to realize that his distance was a wound, and not my fault.
He loved to act as if I was the mature one—like it was my job to understand why he was cold, cruel, or absent.He still acts like that, like I should absorb his silence and turn it into forgiveness.
He insists I should apologize for needing anything.Because I’m the daughter.Because I’m the girl.Because girls don’t rage.We simmer.We apologize.We nod.
Well—fuck that.
I’m done being patient.
