Mr. Self-Pity — The Sigh Loud Enough to Carry

Lyrics

There it is again. The intake of breath. The prelude.

You're in your armchair. Your throne of melancholy.
The tartan blanket is pulled just so, across your knees.
The cup of tea you asked for sits beside you, untouched, getting cold.
A prop for the performance.
The whole living room is your stage.
We are the audience, holding our breath for the main event.

It's the sigh loud enough to carry.
Up the stairs and through the floorboards.
It's the pain you use as currency.
We pay for everything with our quiet.
We pay with our tiptoes on a Saturday morning.
We learn to speak in whispers.

Tuesday's casserole is still in the fridge.
You pushed it away. Didn't say a word.
Just let the silence sit at the table with us, a guest of honor.
The scent of rosemary getting colder.
Your sorrow was the main course.
We all went to bed hungry.

It's the sigh loud enough to carry.
Up the stairs and through the floorboards.
It's the pain you use as currency.
We pay for everything with our quiet.
We pay with our tiptoes on a Saturday morning.
We learn to speak in whispers.

I wonder sometimes if you practice them.
In the car, on your own.
Fine-tuning the pitch, the tremor at the end.
Your wound is the mirror you hold up to us.
And you need us to see the glimmer.
You need us to see you, suffering so beautifully.

Another bill is due.
I walk softly down the hall.
The floorboards know not to creak.
The whole house knows.