Words You Wrote

[ Lyrics ]

You wrote my soul, missed the plot.

Bought your book at the gallery back door,
nameless, wrapped in kraft paper, can’t ignore
how my heart jumped at the quote on page two—
‘She walks like water, speaks like truth.’
But it’s not me. It’s a silhouette,
some phantom you dreamed up while I slept.
You painted me sacred, soft and thin,
never mentioned the way I laugh when I’m losing again.

I’m in every stanza, but not by name,
etched in metaphor, frozen in flame.
You called me eternal—but I’m just a girl
who still cries through sitcoms after a long week in the world.

You wrote my soul, missed the plot,
all the fire, none of the rot.
You crowned me queen of quiet pain,
but left out the times I rise again.
You wrote my soul, but not my voice—
I’m not your poem. I’m not your choice.

Said I was moonlight on a storm-bruised sea,
‘a woman who loved too hard and still believed.’
Poetic, sure—but where’s the part
about the list I kept of every little lie he art?
You missed the rage, the sharp reply,
the 3 a.m. lyrics I wrote to survive.
You didn’t write me—you wrote a myth,
and I lived inside it, bit by bit.

I read each line like a love confession,
but your heart was full of your own impression.
Not a portrait—just a projection,
based on wants, not my reflection.

And I know you thought you knew my name,
but you only loved the one you gave.
You framed me fragile, broke, and true—
never asked what I was fighting through.

You wrote my soul, missed the plot,
all the light, none of the knots.
You made me holy, tragic, pure—
but not the girl who cleans the floor
when the world spills in. I’m not your verse.
I’m not your muse. I’m not your church.

You wrote my soul… missed the plot.

Next time, maybe… read what I’ve got.