Verse 1 Summer came back violent— blue skies like a threat. Every girl in little dresses makes me wanna disappear instead. There’s a swimsuit in my drawer folded like a crime scene. SPF on the counter, dust collecting quietly. I wear hoodies in July now, sweat through every thread. People think I’m cold— I’m just trying not to be seen. And God, I miss the version of my body that didn’t feel borrowed from grief. ⸻ Pre-Chorus You touched the scars like they were stories, not something to survive. I still remember flinching at being looked at kindly for the first time. ⸻ Chorus I’m a ghost beneath the sunshine— every summer hurts. Everybody’s skin looks easy. Mine just feels like work. So I hide behind black fabric, pray nobody looks too long. You call this surviving— but it feels more like being wrong. And I know it’s just a body. So why does mine feel like an apology? ⸻ Verse 2 There’s a lake outside the city— you used to drag me in. Laughing while I stood there with my sleeves against my skin. You said, “Nobody sees what you see.” God, I wanted to believe it. But self-hatred’s a religion when you practice it repeated. Now every heatwave feels personal. Every mirror feels loud. And every pretty girl on sidewalks turns my inner voice feral somehow. I count bones. Count blemishes. Count all the ways I fail femininity. Funny— how a body can be alive and still feel ruined to somebody. ⸻ Pre-Chorus You kissed my shoulder softly, right where the worst one fades. I almost started crying over how gently you said my name. ⸻ Chorus I’m a ghost beneath the sunshine— every summer burns. Everybody else looks human. I just look hurt. So I keep the curtains half-closed, keep the oversized hoodie on. You call this self-protection— but I’ve been hiding for too long. And I know it’s just a body. But I live inside it like a haunted property. ⸻ Bridge (barely above a whisper) The cruel thing about shame is how convincingly it speaks. Like: “Don’t let them see you.” “Don’t take up space.” “Don’t ruin beautiful weather with your brokenness.” So I learned how to vanish gracefully. Learned how to sweat silently. Learned how to say “I’m just not a summer person,” instead of: “I’m terrified of being perceived.” ⸻ Final Chorus (small at first, then breaking open) I’m a ghost beneath the sunshine— still breathing somehow. Trying to believe my body isn’t something to punish now. Maybe healing looks embarrassing. Maybe it starts this slow— standing in the light for one second longer than the version of you before. And maybe this skin isn’t evil. Maybe it’s just tired of being treated like it’s unlovable. You said, “Come outside.” God… I think I finally might… Or not.
