Verse 1

I came up from the Night Sea dripping honest salt,

lungs full of silence, wrists still marked by fault.

Forty-seven winters of “maybe it’s me,”

of translating rage into empathy.

I wore horse blinders made of duty and fear,

called it “love” when it kept them near.

I checked my pulse like a prisoner counts days—

thinking endurance was the only way.

Pre-Chorus

But the deep doesn’t lie—

it just waits till you’re ready to see.

And I saw the pattern like constellations:

your chaos needed my knees.

Chorus

I was the mirror you kept in the hallway

so you could admire your mask every day.

Gaslight gospel, revisionist hymns—

rewrite the world so it favors your whims.

“Witness me fall,” you demanded, “stay close—

take my storms and call it growth.”

But I crossed the threshold, I broke the spell—

I am my own Mr. Miyagi now.

I’m not sweeping your floors for your war anymore.

I’m not sweeping the leg of my soul.

Verse 2

I remember the meetings where truth got strangled,

where love was a leash and “family” was tangled.

Where every boundary I tried to draw

got turned into “proof” that I had a flaw.

Kreese in a cardigan, pious and clean,

teaching obedience behind the scenes—

“Sweep the leg,” then smile at the bruise,

“Did you have a problem with it?”—I learned to lose.

Pre-Chorus

But individuation is a blade in the dark,

and I finally cut through the borrowed parts.

I stopped begging the thieves to be fair—

and built my own air.

Chorus

I was the mirror you kept in the hallway

so you could admire your mask every day.

Gaslight gospel, revisionist hymns—

rewrite the world so it favors your whims.

“Witness me fall,” you demanded, “stay close—

take my storms and call it growth.”

But I crossed the threshold, I broke the spell—

I am my own Mr. Miyagi now.

I’m not sweeping your floors for your war anymore.

I’m not sweeping the leg of my soul.

Bridge

Here’s the revelation:

I was never weak—

I was trained to confuse kindness with defeat.

Low latent inhibition—yeah, I felt it all,

every micro-flinch, every ritual call.

INFJ Sigma—silent blade,

reading the room like a debt unpaid.

And the wounded healer finally understood:

They didn’t love me—

they loved what I absorbed.

So listen—

I bless the version of me that stayed,

but I bury the vow that made me a slave.

No more being the stable one in the fire

while you cosplay collapse for attention and power.

My nervous system is not your altar.

My compassion is not your collar.

Final Chorus

I was the mirror you kept in the hallway

so you could admire your mask every day.

Gaslight gospel, revisionist hymns—

rewrite the world so it favors your whims.

“Witness me fall,” you demanded, “stay close—

take my storms and call it growth.”

But I crossed the threshold, I broke the spell—

I am my own Mr. Miyagi now.

I choose my breath. I choose my name.

I choose the peace you couldn’t fake.

I don’t need your version of history—

I’ve got my own eyes, and I’m finally free.

Outro (spoken / half-sung)

No more horse blinders.

No more “prove you love me” trials.

No more revisionist courts.

I bow to the teacher I became.

I am my own Miyagi.

And this time… I walk away.