I count myself out.
Quiet as dust on the screen.
Then your name walks in
like it still knows me.

Wake up broke in a room full of numbers,
phone face down but the blue light hums.
Everybody online got a brighter summer,
I got bills in a drawer and a jaw gone numb.
I scroll past smiles with the teeth all polished,
cars in the sun, new keys, new views.
My shirt still smells like last week’s panic,
coffee gone cold in my interview shoes.
I want their nerve.
I want their ease.
I want one clean hour where my chest can breathe.
But the mirror keeps books with a cruel little pen,
writes my name in red, then writes it again.
I curse my luck, then I curse my face,
then I curse the room for giving me space.
All alone with the walls leaned in,
I count myself out before the count begins.

I count myself out,
then your name counts me in.
Low as the floor,
you lift my chin.
No crown, no gold,
no crowd, no win.
I count myself out,
then your name counts me in.

I used to pray with my hands wide open,
now they stay shut like they’re hiding a theft.
I hear good news and it lands like a warning,
somebody got what I never kept.
I hate that part.
That small, sharp part.
The one that sees joy and calls it a mark.
I see a friend in a tailor-made life,
two kids laughing in a kitchen light.
I should feel glad, but my throat goes tight,
envy comes dressed like a reasonable right.
Then your old voice cuts through the static,
not loud, not sweet, just steady as rain.
Says I am not the sum of the panic,
not the missed call, not the locked gate.
And something in me, half-dead, thin,
turns toward morning and lets you in.

I count myself out,
then your name counts me in.
Low as the floor,
you lift my chin.
No crown, no gold,
no crowd, no win.
I count myself out,
then your name counts me in.

Let the rich keep the room.
Let the loud keep the glass.
Let the lucky shake hands
where I never got asked.
I had a kingdom of almost,
a throne made of doubt.
You said my name once—
and the walls stepped out.

I count myself out,
then your name counts me in.
Low as the floor,
you lift my chin.
No crown, no gold,
no crowd, no win.
When I count myself out,
your name counts me in.

Morning comes poor,
but it comes.
I stand there breathing
like I owe it one.