Crow On The Wire
This track is a hinge: one soft click of honesty in the dark, while the watcher in me waits patient on the wire.
ABOUT THE SONG
(keep scrolling for myth map, inner mechanics, and full lyrics)
This one is a watcher-song.
I wrote Crow on the Wire on a Scorpio new moon (hi, fellow Scorpio), and it feels like it came in to catch one very specific moment: the second before I stop lying to myself.
Not a big movie-breakthrough.
Not a scream in the woods.
More like that quiet hinge where I finally admit,
“Okay. I know what’s true. I’m just scared to live like it.”
For most of my life I’ve been a little bit afraid of my own accuracy.
I’ll see patterns early, feel the truth before anyone names it, know what’s coming… and then I’ll shrink.
I’ll make a joke.
I’ll wait for everyone else to “come up with” the idea I already had.
I’ve learned I have to repeat myself a lot to be heard, so sometimes I just stay quiet and let people discover it in their own timing.
This song is the part of me that doesn’t shrink.
The crow in this track is my watcher-self — the little inner witness who never collapses even when I do. She:
hears my voice before it goes small
notices where I disappear to keep the peace
spots the ache I keep tucking behind my smile
waits on the wire until I’m brave enough to see my truth
She doesn’t drag me.
She doesn’t fix me.
She just waits.
“Crow says move, the dark parts agree” is how it feels when I finally stop arguing with what I already know.
I’m not writing as a guru here.
I’m just a mom trying to learn how to live with a nervous system that sees things early without punishing myself for it.
This song is a tiny ritual for walking back into my own body when I’ve been hiding in the hallway.
🪶 CROW’S MYTH MAP OF THE SONG
On the surface, this is a little crow poem over a beat.
Underneath, it’s my inner world drawn as a cartoon:
Crow = the watcher, the brutally honest part of me that never shuts her eyes
Hider / coward = the survival part that jokes, overfunctions, changes the subject, and keeps everyone else comfortable
Shadow = the pain I won’t name yet, the stuff I keep sweeping into the same corner
Wire = that thin, steady line of truth my life keeps circling back to
Hinge = the micro-moment where I stop lying to myself and turn back in
The song hangs out on three currents:
The witness who never leaves.
“She hears my voice before it goes small” — the part of me that noticed everything as a kid and still notices everything now. Even when I’m pretending not to.The truth that naming = movement.
“Name the pain, or she will” — unspoken hurt grows mold. Spoken hurt grows air.The hinge as holy object.
“Turn the hinge, walk back in” — healing isn’t fireworks. It’s that tiny click where I stop dodging the obvious.
Where BiPPiTY BOPPiTY BOO was “how I talk to reality,”
Crow on the Wire is “stop lying to yourself.”
Not a moral lie — a survival lie.
The tiny kind you tell your body so the day feels navigable:
“I’m fine.”
“It didn’t matter.”
“I’m over it.”
“I can’t deal with that right now.”
You know the voice: the one that sands the edges off your own emotions so you don’t scare anyone.
🕊️ THE WATCHER & THE HIDER
(how this ties into me, not just the bird)
1️⃣ The Hider
She’s the one who:
changes the subject right when something lands too close
keeps Spotify playing so my thoughts don’t start asking scary questions
makes self-deprecating jokes so nobody else gets the first hit
overfunctions, cleans, manages, fixes, hovers, so I never have to sit in stillness
waits for other people to “discover” the idea I quietly knew weeks ago
Her job is survival: don’t be too much, don’t be too right, don’t set anyone off.
2️⃣ The Crow on the Wire
She:
braids light where dark flees
hears my voice before it goes small
holds my name steady when I feel like I’m disappearing
spots the ache in my sleepy dream
sits on the wire and won’t pretend not to notice
Her job is truth:
I see what you’re doing. I’m not mad. I’m not leaving. I’m just not going to lie with you.
The whole song is basically these two parts of me looking at each other.
The Hider says, “If we look at this pain, it’ll swallow us.”
The Crow says, “If we don’t look, it rots.”
“Crow says move, the dark parts agree”
is what it feels like when the survival-self finally goes,
“Fine. Okay. We can tell the truth. Just stay with me while we do.”
🫀 SOMATIC / NERVOUS-SYSTEM LAYER
I didn’t write this as a concept piece.
I wrote it because my body tells on me in ways I’m only now starting to understand.
My voice will crack — or the whole sentence falls out of my head — when I’m getting too close to something honest.
My shoulders turn into earrings.
I start cleaning things, as if external order can outrun internal chaos.
I hold my breath without meaning to.
And when I read, something strange happens:
my brain slips sideways.
The text blurs, the meaning evaporates, my focus “slides off” like water on wax.
It’s not a lack of attention.
It’s a tiny dissociation reflex — my body giving me static instead of clarity so I don’t have to feel how fast the truth is landing.
For years I thought I was bad at reading, or slow, or unfocused.
Now I know: it’s not fear of reading.
It’s fear of being right before anyone else sees it —
of my mind lighting up too quickly, too clearly, too soon.
This song is a little map for that:
“before my voice goes small” → catch the shrink early, before the truth gets edited
“name the pain, or she will” → either I say it out loud, or my body says it for me (back pain, headaches, nausea, the whole somatic vocabulary)
“turn the hinge, walk back in” → re-enter myself without swinging old weapons like self-blame, overexplaining, or perfection armor
“waits on the wire” → the watcher-self doesn’t abandon me, even when I abandon myself
It’s less a spell to change reality and more a song I can put on when I feel myself disappearing.
🖤 THE APOLOGY REFLEX (AND HOW THE CROW SEES IT)
There’s another place she catches me:
Every time I say “sorry” after speaking.
Every time I cut myself off mid-sentence so someone else can go.
Every time I shrink my volume, soften my tone, or hand the floor over before I’ve even finished my thought.
It doesn’t come from manners.
It comes from fear — the old wiring that says:
Don’t take up air. Don’t take space. Don’t be the one who knows first. Don’t make anyone uncomfortable.
The crow on the wire never buys that performance.
She doesn’t shame me for it.
She just tilts her head as if to say:
“You don’t owe them an apology for existing and having opinions”
That’s the softer meaning behind
“She hears my voice before it goes small.”
She hears the sentence before I kill it.
She hears the truth before I sand it down.
She hears the me-I-meant-to-be before the hider takes the wheel.
And she waits — patient, unbothered — until I’m ready to speak without shrinking.
🔍 A TINY REAL-LIFE STORY THREAD
There’s a pattern that’s followed me my whole life:
I’ll see something clearly — a situation, a dynamic, a solution — and when I say it, people don’t hear me.
Or they brush it off.
Weeks later, they’ll come back with,
“I had this idea…”
and it’s the exact thing I suggested.
I used to make that mean something was wrong with me:
I’m too intense
I explain badly
I must be imagining things
no one listens to my ideas
Now I’m slowly learning:
I’m just right early, and other people need time.
The crow in this song is the part of me that doesn’t gaslight that ability anymore.
She’s like,
“Yeah, you saw it. You don’t have to stuff that knowing just because the room isn’t ready.”
THE MICRO RAGES (THE ONES I’M “NOT SUPPOSED” TO FEEL)
There’s a whole layer beneath this song I haven’t talked about yet:
the part of me that thinks I’m “not allowed” to feel petty, irritated, insecure, jealous, resentful, or overwhelmed.
The tiny rages.
The quiet flinches.
The “I shouldn’t feel this way” moments.
Those are the ones that rot the fastest.
Sometimes the truth is simple:
my body is trying to tell me a boundary got crossed,
or I bent myself too far,
or I swallowed one too many micro-hurts.
But instead of listening, I scold myself.
I get mad that I’m mad.
I shame the emotion instead of honoring it.
The hider in me whispers:
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“Don’t be petty.”
“Others have it worse.”
And that’s when the crow settles on the wire and goes:
“Name the pain, or she will.”
Because she knows something I’m still learning:
the small, unspoken feelings are often the real hinge.
They’re the moment before the collapse, the shrinking, the “my voice falls out of my head” moment.
They’re the reason I clean the counter for the fourth time.
They’re the reason the text on a page suddenly blurs.
They’re the reason I feel myself “ghosting out” of my own skin.
Sometimes the truth I’m avoiding isn’t catastrophic.
It’s embarrassingly honest.
I’m tired.
I’m overstretched.
I’m irritated that no one noticed how much i do.
I’m hurt that I wasn’t heard.
I’m angry that I abandoned myself again.
Letting myself feel that — even for sixty seconds — changes everything.
It lets the pressure valve release without blowing the whole house apart.
Sometimes I literally need to walk away and growl.
Or stomp.
Or have a quiet 30 second rage fit punching air.
It’s primal.
It’s human.
It’s permission.
Rage isn’t a flaw.
It’s a compass.
When I treat it like data instead of a moral failure, my system exhales.
The emotion dissolves because it finally got a place to land.
That’s why the song says:
“Crow says move, the dark parts agree.”
The movement isn’t dramatic.
It’s not a storm.
It’s a truth-twitch — the moment I stop gaslighting myself and let the feeling be felt.
The Crow on the Wire doesn’t shame the pettiness.
She doesn’t roll her eyes at the jealousy.
She doesn’t call the irritation “overreacting.”
She just watches and waits for me to stop performing and start feeling.
This song is part witness, part reminder, part permission slip:
Your small rages are not crimes.
They’re messages.
Let them speak.
Let them pass.
Let yourself come home.
🕯️ CROW WISDOM THREADS
“This one isn’t a spell, it’s a witness — a two-minute threshold where I stop arguing with what I already know.”
“I see you. I know where you tucked the hurt. When you’re ready, I’ll walk you back in.”
your mood is a compass
your hiding is a lock
your courage is the hinge
truth waits, it doesn’t chase
alignment isn’t a chant, it’s a turning-back-in
Everything expands the second you stop contracting.
Your mood is the steering wheel — you can’t reach clarity while practicing collapse.
If you don’t name what hurts, the hurt will do the talking for you.
The hinge = the threshold between false-self and true-self. Not a door outward. A door inward.
🗣️ CROW AFFIRMATION — CROW ON THE WIRE
If you’re here, maybe you’ve got a little witness inside you too.
May your watcher stay patient.
May the part of you who sees clearly not have to shrink just to keep the room calm.
May your hider feel safe enough to rest.
May the joking, overfunctioning, subject-changing part of you learn it doesn’t have to carry the whole house on its back anymore.
May your hinge turn easy.
Not with a slam, just a quiet click:
“Okay. I know what’s real. I’m coming back in.”
May your crow stay on the wire, bright-eyed and unbothered,
until the day you stop being scared of how right you are…
and let that accuracy be a kindness instead of a crime.
LYRICS — CROW ON THE WIRE
[intro]
Crow on the wire…
watching the part of me I keep quiet.
crow on the wire
[Hook]
Crow says move,
the dark parts agree—
She sees through me…
knows the places I hide—
waits on the wire
[verse]
Crow braids light where dark flees—
Her caw pulls what hides me—
She hears my voice before it goes small,
holds my name like stone when I fall.
Name the pain, or she will.
...name the pain, or it rots ill
Follow the feather, not fear.
Crow names truth the coward won’t hear
bright eye like a keyhole gleam—
she spots the ache in my sleepy dream.
Crow says, “Turn the hinge…
[pause]
walk back in.”
[Hook ]
Crow says move, the dark parts agree—
She sees through me…
knows the places I hide—
waits on the wire
[outro]
] …waits on the wire till I let her in.
