Selling the Honesty She Won't Spend

Lyrics

In the central Pacific...
...on a mountain no one has a name for.
A bundle, tied with kitchen string.
Heavy with water. And something else.

They call her Honest Harriet.
For a fee, she'll make you sound true.
She'll write you a bio that gets the right kind of swipe.
"Loves dogs, hiking, and deep conversation."
"My therapist says I'm emotionally available."
She polishes other people's longing until it shines.
A perfect, curated honesty.
Easy to digest.

But these letters... these are for no one's eyes.
These are the words she couldn't press 'send' on.
Heavy, salt-logged, and true in a way that hurts.
She sells the light, but sinks the source.
Can you sell an honesty you won't spend yourself?
Can you?

This one starts, "I never told you..."
This one is just a list of apologies.
This one is creased and blotted, rage on a page.
No witty one-liners here.
No charming self-deprecation.
Just the 2 a.m. truth that doesn't fit a profile.
The kind of honesty that doesn't ask for a date.
It just asks to be heard, and she couldn't even do that.

And these letters... these are for no one's eyes.
These are the words she couldn't press 'send' on.
Heavy, salt-logged, and true in a way that hurts.
She sells the light, but sinks the source.
Can you sell an honesty you won't spend yourself?
Can you?

I see her on the deck of a boat.
The weight in her hands.
Not just paper, but years of silence.
Letting them go into the black.
Watching them fall away from the light.
Past the curious fish, past the reach of the sun.
Down to the cold, quiet slope of a hidden mountain.
Where the pressure makes ghosts of everything.

The ink is running now.
The fibers are coming undone.
"I miss you" bleeds into "I'm sorry."
"I hate you" dissolves into the current.
All her truest words...
...food for the dark.
And the question just hangs here.
In the water.