Mom, I Think I’m Breaking

[ Lyrics ]

Mom, I think I’m breaking—quiet on the line.

Floor’s cold, but I can’t feel it much,
carpet stained with spilled tea and trust.
Phone glows in the dark like a confession booth,
fingers shake — I almost didn’t choose.
Five rings, then your voice — so soft, so sure,
like a sweater I wore back when I was pure.
Not pure like perfect, just… untouched by all this noise,
Before the silence at castings and dead-end jobs.
I say I’m fine, but the pause says no,
my breath cracks like the walls in this studio.
You don’t say ‘Come home,’ you don’t say ‘Quit,’
you just say, ‘Talk to me. Let it in, let it split.’

And I try — God, I try to keep it neat,
fold the pain like laundry on the seat.
But it piles up, Mom, in shades of blue,
and I don’t know who to call when no one sees you.

Mom, I think I’m breaking — quiet on the line,
little girl lost in a city that shines.
I smile on sets, I sing in my bed,
but I haven’t slept through the night in weeks, I just dread
the morning light, the same routine —
laundry, ramen, voice notes, screen.
Mom, I think I’m breaking — echo on the call,
you say I’m strong, but I don’t feel tall.

Remember when I danced in the kitchen at nine?
Hair in two braids, heart so aligned.
Now I stand in front of mirrors in casting rooms,
trying to sell a version of me that blooms
on command. But the bloom’s gone dry.
I perform, but the joy’s a lie.
And the girls out there — flawless, thin, so sure,
I watch their reels and compare the allure.
Not of their skin — but their ease, their grace,
how they wear their names like a familiar place.
Mine still feels borrowed, still feels new,
like I’m playing a part no one’s asking me to.

You don’t fix it — and I love you for that.
You don’t say ‘Pack up’ or ‘This wasn’t a fact.’
You just ask, ‘Did you eat? Are the lights on?
When was the last time you saw the dawn?’

Mom, I think I’m breaking — quiet on the line,
little girl lost in a city that shines.
I smile on sets, I sing in my bed,
but I haven’t slept through the night in weeks, I just dread
the morning light, the same routine —
laundry, ramen, voice notes, screen.
Mom, I think I’m breaking — echo on the call,
you say I’m strong, but I don’t feel tall.

I thought I’d grow here — not just survive,
but bloom loud, make the doubters dive
into the truth: that I was born for this.
But right now, even the dream feels like a miss.
You say, ‘You were born brave — not flawless, not fast,
but you don’t quit. That’s the fire that lasts.’
Hearing it… I almost believe.
For a second, the weight starts to leave.

Mom, I think I’m breaking — but I’m still on the line,
little girl calling from the edge of the climb.
I’ll fake the strength, I’ll fake the grin,
but at least now I know where I’ve been.
And when I fall silent, you’ll stay on the screen,
not with answers — just love that’s clean.
Mom, I’m not fixed, but I’m not fully broken,
just a heart learning how to stay open.

…held on long enough.