The story behind this song
Two checkboxes on every page and a pen hovering, never sure where to land. A life of "ladies and gentlemen" over the speaker, of school bathroom doors and forms that assumed a row. Then one ordinary day, both options crossed out and a truer word written into the white margin — a small thing, a pen and a blank space, and yet the sky doesn't fall, the floor doesn't give. The friend who switches to the new words over Tuesday coffee, no ceremony, just slid in, and something long-clenched lets go.
It isn't a failure to choose; it's choosing the path pressed through the grass between the two on offer. A shop-window reflection finally met with a nod instead of a flinch.
For anyone who fit neither box and found a whole field instead.
Lyrics
and a pen that hovered, unsure where to stay.
or so the printer assumed.
"Ladies and gentlemen," over the speaker,
and I'd shrink in the back of the room.
So one day I crossed out both options
and I wrote my own word in the white —
small thing, a pen and a margin,
but my hand didn't shake when I write.
the world just kept turning, and so did I —
and the relief of it could make me cry.
There's a path pressed through the grass between,
and that's the one that's mine.
Not a failure to choose, my love —
I just don't fit in either box.
like it was nothing, no ceremony, no fuss —
just slid them in over coffee one Tuesday,
and something un-clenched in my chest.
I caught myself in a shop window,
didn't flinch, didn't look away —
just nodded at the person walking toward me,
finally, finally okay.
the world just kept turning, and so did I —
and the relief of it could make me cry.
There's a path pressed through the grass between,
and that's the one that's mine.
Not a failure to choose, my love —
I just don't fit in either box.
not sure which door was theirs —
there's a whole open field out past the doorways,
more room than the forms prepare.
You're not too much, you're not missing a piece.
You're allowed to just be there.
and the relief of it could make me cry.
There's a path pressed through the grass between,
and that's the one that's mine.
Not a failure to choose, my love —
I just don't fit in either box.
Neither box. Free at last.
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