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Spoken version
A recorded reading of “Soul Clearing, Soft Hands”. If the player does not load, use the original audio source.
I clean the room inside me like I’m someone I love. No harsh lights. No shame talk. Just a soft kind of enough. I dust the “should’ve” from the shelves behind my ribs—fine grit, old chalk— and lift the fear I kept within reach into a box that doesn’t bite back. Label-maker tape across the lid: I forgive this. Warm milk-light moves through haze, loosening every clenched demand. If my heart learned survival, it can learn a gentler hand. —hinge-chime. A quiet start— I clean the room inside me with ornate, patient hands: cloth in my palm, soap-scent rising, steady circles where panic used to stand. I don’t need to be perfect. Let the wax unseal the story. Let the old cord come undone. I clean the room inside me until the air has room to move. I used to call it “strength” when I swallowed every sound, but the library wrote it different— said: breathe it out, set it down. So I mop the corners quietly where the body hides its storms— behind the door, under the desk, inside the drawer that sticks. I wring the cloth hard— knuckles pale, water dark— until what clung lets go. Pastel glow across the surfaces like sunrise caught in glass. Not erasing what happened— just lifting how it sticks. —page-turn: a clean stop— I clean the room inside me with ornate, patient hands. I smooth the old “not enough” flat like a sheet that’s done with creases. If my body is a library, let it be quiet and bright: dust-motes in a slant of lamp-light, aisles I don’t have to sprint. I stop turning pain into scripture just to make it feel like right. I take the bookmark out of the wound. I set it on the desk—plain. I close that chapter without a fight. At the window, a latch I never used turns with a small, new give. I crack it open—one thumb-width— and the room learns what outside is. —hinge-chime returns— I clean the room inside me with ornate, patient hands. I don’t need to be perfect. I just need to understand— and I rinse the cloth until it runs clear, bucket emptied, soap-scent thinning, dust lifting in the milk-light like it’s finally got somewhere to go.
Lyrics
I clean the room inside me Like I’m someone I love No harsh lights, no shame talk Just a soft kind of enough I dust off all the “should’ve” Off the shelves behind my ribs Put the old fear in a box Label it “I forgive this” Warm milk-light through the haze Loosening every clenched demand If my heart learned survival It can learn a gentler hand I clean the room inside me With ornate, patient hands I don’t need to be perfect I just need to understand Let the wax unseal the story Let the old cord come undone I clean the room inside me Till there’s space for what I’ve become I used to call it “strength” When I swallowed every sound But the library wrote it different Said, “Breathe it out, set it down” So I mop the corners quietly Where the panic likes to hide Pastel glow on every surface Like a sunrise from inside I’m not erasing what happened I’m releasing how it sticks I can keep the lesson honest Without living in the wreck I clean the room inside me With ornate, patient hands I don’t need to be perfect I just need to understand Let the wax unseal the story Let the old cord come undone I clean the room inside me Till there’s space for what I’ve become If my body is a library Let it be quiet and bright I’ll stop turning pain to scripture Just to make it feel like “right” I can be soft and still be sacred I can be real and still be fine I can walk out less crowded Into my own light I clean the room inside me With ornate, patient hands I don’t need to be perfect I just need to understand Let the wax unseal the story Let the old cord come undone I clean the room inside me Till there’s space for what I’ve become
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