Lyrics

What leaves in Water
Maybe the tears
are not the wound.

Maybe they are
what the wound
could no longer hold.

I used to wipe them quickly,
like the evidence was wrong.
Like grief became more dangerous
the moment it was seen.

So I swallowed every weather,
held the thunder in my throat,
made a home inside composure
while my body kept the score.

But the eyes know what the mouth denies.
The chest knows when enough is enough.

Sometimes healing does not enter.
Sometimes
it leaves.

Salt on my skin,
breath in my lungs—
something is moving
that once stayed stuck.

What leaves in water
does not leave me weak.

It is the body
finishing a sentence
I was too afraid to speak.

Let it fall.
Let it run.
Let the ache become undone.

These tears are not the breaking.

They are what breaks
the hurt apart.

What leaves in water
makes more room
inside the heart.

There are sorrows without language,
old enough to lose their names.
Little rooms beneath the ribs
where we keep unfinished pain.

I thought strength was keeping everything
exactly where it fell.

But a river is not fragile
because it cannot hold itself.

Maybe nothing living
was designed
to stay contained forever.

Maybe even oceans
need the shore
to let them go.

My hands stop fighting.
My jaw lets go.

The body knows
before the mind
what it is ready to release.

What leaves in water
does not leave me weak.

It is the body
finishing a sentence
I was too afraid to speak.

Let it fall.
Let it run.
Let the ache become undone.

These tears are not the breaking.

They are what breaks
the hurt apart.

What leaves in water
makes more room
inside the heart.

Maybe I was never crying
because I could not carry it.

Maybe I was crying
because I had carried it
long enough.

Maybe the trembling
was not collapse.
Maybe it was movement.

Maybe the grief
was not returning
maybe it was leaving.

Not every tear
comes from a new wound.

Some come
when an old one
finally opens the door.

So let the salt
take what it came for.

The anger.
The fear.
The words that stayed too long.

Let the body turn memory
back into water.

Let what was frozen
remember how to move.

What leaves in water
does not leave me less.

It carries out
the weight I wore
beneath my tenderness.

Let it fall.
Let it run.
There is nothing here to overcome.

These tears are not the ending.

They are the body
making space.

And every drop
that leaves my skin
returns me
to my shape.

What leaves in water
does not take me with it.

It only takes
what I no longer need
to keep alive.

Maybe the tears
were never the wound.

Maybe they were
the first sign

that the wound
had started
to let me go.

Let it leave