I took a minute till the penny dropped, you know
My tears don’t fall too often
But your knife is cuttin’ me deep
I hear her sing it on the BRIT Awards. It’s Saturday afternoon and I’m off from work, and I’m tentatively playing around with words for a submission.
There’s a sentence in my head that somehow, with a little help from her voice, flows into a paragraph onto the page. Her lyrics and the words in my head don’t match in theme but fuck it, she’s helping and I’m writing and the prose feels sensual and raw and still like me.
Later on I’ll think of what she’s actually singing. And I’ll be reminded of moments I didn’t want to be reminded of. Moments where I’d been made to feel like a dirty little secret. Moments where who I used to be was turned against me and I let it happen because I didn’t know.
And I’ll be glad because she’s fucking done it, hasn’t she? By chance, this random repeat of Emeli Sandé’s performing Hurts at the BRITS a few days ago gives me, better late than never, the right words to express to myself what I felt back then.
Sometimes life happens out of sequence. It’s less than 24 hours earlier that I come to the realization that I am done with letting that kind of pain have such a power over me.
Her voice gives me a wave to write on. Her lyrics give me the right words to express old wounds.
When all that’s left to do is watch it burn
Oh baby, I’m not made of stone, it hurts