False Bottom

[Verse 1]
Third week of November, the Coleman lantern from the garage shelf.
Cash in the ziplock bag is a taproot I planted myself.
Burner phone's got one contact, the battery's at ninety-four.
I practice the story in the mirror 'til my reflection gets bored.
Smell of the mothballs in the wool coat, the silence is deafening,
The skeleton key to a deadbolt is a lesson in severing.
I trace the new growth on the ficus I'm leaving on the sill here,
This is just pruning the branches that I know are gonna kill ya.

[Chorus]
It's not if.
It's what the air feels like after.
It's not why.
It's just the sound of the latch.

[Verse 2]
Rehearsed the walk to the Greyhound station down on Seventh Street.
Memorized the schedule, the departure hum, the bitter and the sweet.
The cashier at the mini-mart said, "have a good night," like it was simple.
The lie sits under my tongue, a pebble pressed into a temple.
This version of me doesn't flinch, he doesn't check the rearview twice,
He pays the price, a careful cut, a surgical and clean device.
He's just an invasive species getting ripped out of the soil now,
And I've been cultivating this escape plan for a while now.

[Bridge]
Some locks you don't pick.
You just walk away from the door.
They ask what I'd take with me.
Nothing that was yours before.

[Outro]
The key is on the counter.
The engine's cold, but it'll turn over.