13. Now, Why Does He Do That?
He taught me to vanish loud—
To smile while the ground caved in.
My name faded from my own mouth.
[VERSE 1]
Cut my laugh quick, choke the will—twelve-hour shift, I step in slow.
The house a mess—he's gaming, eyes glazed cold.
I say, "Let's hang out, clean up this place," he doesn't pause, won't look my way.
Says I'm ungrateful. Then I'm a bitch. That's all it takes to end my day.
His birthday next—I cook for hours. Roast and potatoes, his Irish way.
Table's set, the candles play—he walks in full, says he ate on the way.
I say, "You ate?"—he snaps, grabs the food I made and dumps it in the trash.
The plate explodes. He shoves me hard—my back meets tile with a thrash.
Takes a bat to the walls. Our dog so scared he pees by the door.
7 A.M.—I walk in quiet. He's wrapped in my blanket on the floor.
The laptop slams shut. I say, "I saw it." He says, "I didn't. I don't do that."
The room goes thin. He says, "You know you're the most beautiful, I've seen."
But I know what it was—porn on the screen.
A 'bad wife' if I ask. A threat if I object.
A ghost if I don't. A fight if I track.
I name the push—and he shoves me back.
[PRE-CHORUS]
He plays the victim, I pay the dues.
I mark the trick—then comes the fuse.
He builds the bomb, then lights my doubt.
Smile in the blast, while I crawl out.
[CHORUS]
Why does he do that? Calm's a costume—rage is a blade.
He says, "You're overthinking"— rewrites what I say.
Why does he do that? Says it's "love" and tightens the cage.
He says, "You're too sensitive"— laughs in my face.
Why does he do that? Gaslight glows, the burn doesn't fade.
He says, "It's nothing"— I still shake.
Why does he do that? I speak up— I'm the one to blame.
Why does he do that?
[VERSE 2]
Talks about his trauma mid argument—I'm the villain for being upset.
Says, "You vowed to stay"—like I'm God's marionette.
Touches me more in public than he does at home.
Says it's in my head; the room shrinks like wet denim sewn.
Has affairs and denies them—eyes blank, mouth flat.
Does cocaine and hides it, wipes his nose, blames the draft.
Out with friends, drinks and dice—if I text a friend, I've "crossed a line."
Phone screen wipes when I walk past—he laughs with boys; I get confined.
I see hair I don't own on his shirt—just one more souvenir.
His feelings flood the room; mine never get to steer.
He writes about me in his journal—leaves it open where I sit.
Then gets mad when I read it. Says it's my fault he writes all this shit.
Says I'm the curse God tossed on his lawn.
Says God sees a sinner—I'll rot in hell if I move on.
He stays out all night, won't say where he's gone.
He walks in singing, like I slept just fine—the shadow comes home.
[CHORUS]
Why does he do that? Calm's a costume—rage is a blade.
He says, "You're overthinking"— rewrites what I say.
Why does he do that? Says it's "love" and tightens the cage.
He says, "You're too sensitive"— laughs in my face.
Why does he do that? Gaslight glows, the burn doesn't fade.
He says, "It's nothing"— I still shake.
Why does he do that? I speak up— I'm the one to blame.
Why does he do that?
[VERSE 3]
I wake on his lap—he's watching porn like I'm not there.
I throw his phone, it cracks the wall—he just stares.
I'm shaking, gone—he finds my car, GPS-tracked.
Leaves flowers and notes. Says, "I know where you're at."
He says he's changed. Says he knows he scares me—but that's love, right?
He says I'll end up dead in a trunk. Then begs me not to leave that night.
Loses control, then says I'm the one brooding.
Tells me no one else would want me—then cries like I'm doing the wounding.
He doesn't hold me—he holds me hostage. Wraps it in the word "forever."
Says he'd die without me—then swears I'll go first, like that makes it better.
I say, "That felt off"—he says, "Define what you mean."
Now I'm defending the word, not the thing that I've seen.
He stays calm like a priest while I fall apart.
Says, "You're the cruel one"—with my bruises still art.
I try to land the facts—he lets them fall.
Then builds a case like I imagined it all.
[CHORUS]
Why does he do that? Calm's a costume—rage is a blade.
He says, "You're overthinking"— rewrites what I say.
Why does he do that? Says it's "love" and tightens the cage.
He says, "You're too sensitive"— laughs in my face.
Why does he do that? Gaslight glows, the burn doesn't fade.
He says, "It's nothing"— I still shake.
Why does he do that? I speak up— I'm the one to blame.
Why does he do that?
[OUTRO]
He never needed to hit me to make me fade.
Now the mirror won't hold me—the edges fray.
My memory gaslights me back into place.
