Crow - Lyrics

LYRICS

Crow remembers. Crow stays near.
Crow doesn’t flinch when the grief gets clear.

If you see a crow, there’s a reason she came.
She remembers the place where you swallowed your name.
She flies over houses where anger got stuck,
Where silence moved in and called it bad luck.
She sees the first hit, the bruise that grew,
She saw what they did to you.
She waits on the wire while you scream in your bed—
She knows what you meant when you left it unsaid.

When you see a crow and it stares you back—
That’s not a curse, it’s a mirror crack.
It’s the part of you watching from just offscreen,
It’s the scream in the seams of the in-between.
She doesn’t bring death—she names what’s stuck,
And shows you the places you gave too much.
It’s a warning. A witness. A drum on the wind.
She’s the sound that begins when you stop holding in.


Every crow is a call to rise—
A scream in feathers. A mouth in skies.
Every wing is a wound that flew.
She brings the part I gave too soon.
I gave her the ache. She gave it a sound.
The crow doesn’t flinch. She speaks it out loud.

Crows hold funerals. Yeah, it’s real.
They cry when a friend dies. They gather and feel.
They circle the body. They scream and they stare.
They don’t look away. They stay right there.
No one taught them. It’s just what they know—
That when someone falls, the others must show.
They don’t say “move on.” They don’t say “fine.”
They stop and they feel. They honor the sign.

The crow sees everything. That’s her job.
She watches the weak and the ones who rob.
She circles the spots where the ghosts still feed—
Where the habit keeps playing the same old scene.
She knows your voice before it got small,
She remembers your name when no one calls.
I slept in fists. My jaw was steel.
She circled every bruise I feel.
She nested in the scars I peel—
A shrine made out of what won’t heal.
She drank the night I couldn’t cry.
She caught my ghost before goodbye.
She wears my grief, but twice as high—
A scream that learned how not to die.

Every crow is a call to rise—
A scream in feathers. A mouth in skies.
Every wing is a wound that flew.
She brings the part I gave too soon.
I gave her the ache. She gave it a sound.
The crow doesn’t flinch. She speaks it out loud.

She saw the guilt that was never yours.
She saw how kindness turned into chores.
She saw how you vanished to make things smooth,
How you bit your tongue to help them soothe.
I feel her land when my shoulders burn.
I feel her twitch in my back when I turn.
She lives in my hips when I scream through tears.
She taps in my ribs when I swallow fear.
She’s the one who walked with my rage to the hill.
She watched me tremble—and waited still.

I birthed her from the bitter end—
A crow who does not break or bend.
She’s made of me, but speaks for more.
A thousand girls who slammed that door.
She stitches wings from every sore
And flies where I once knelt before.

She brought me mud when I begged for sleep.
She taught me to dig when I wanted to scream.
She said: “What you bury will always bloom—
Let it break, let it bruise, let it shake the room.”
One foot in shadow, one wing wide,
One black eye on your grief inside.

We carry the ghost like a song too loud.
It lives in our limbs when we hush the sound.
That twitch in the fingers? That brace in the jaw?
That’s the rhythm of grief trying to scratch through the wall.
She flies low.
She walks slow.
She lands on your bed with a sideways look,
Said: “You reading grief or just quoting books?”

She’s cute. She’s not kind.
She pecks at the eyes of the voice that whined.
She’s not your guide. She’s your mirror with wings.
She brings the dirt where the healing stings.
Crows don’t ask—they know what’s true.
They remember faces, they remember you.
They gift their dead to the dirt with grace,
But first they scream. They show their face.

They study the street and they know who lied.
They pass the signal with a sidelong eye.
They’ve seen you twist. They’ve heard your prayer.
They know you died while still sitting there.
And when you rose with your mouth sewn shut—
They followed the fire in your gut.

I swallowed nails. She learned the taste.
I buried proof. She mapped the place.
She dragged my shame through holy waste
And dared it stare me in the face.

Every crow is a call to rise— A scream in feathers.
A mouth in skies. Every wing is a wound that flew.
She brings the part I gave too soon. I gave her the ache.
She gave it a sound. The crow don’t flinch. She speaks it out loud.

I tried to blink my past away.
I fed her every swallowed thing.
I wear the bruise. She wears the sting.
I held the silence. She made it sing.

So if a crow lands, or flies on through—
She’s here for a reason. She’s here for you.