Chapter 04 · 3 min 53 sec
The Saints Go Clubbing
The weight of words never spoken — how silence can be its own kind of violence.
Lyrics· 257 words
[Verse 1] We came in torn at the seams Mud on our shoes, no clean name You held your coat like a shield I held my breath like a flame
No halos here, just bruises No perfect lines, no plan But the door swung open for us And we stepped in like we can
[Pre-Chorus] Hands up, hearts low Room full of broken gold If the night can take us Maybe it can hold
[Chorus] The saints go clubbing We go clubbing Grief gets lighter When we’re moving
The saints go clubbing We go clubbing Pain on the floor And we keep on choosing
[Verse 2] Your laugh hit the glass like rain Mine came late, then stayed We traded our darkest stories Like coats at the edge of the stage
Somebody lost their name tag Somebody found their nerve A girl in red on the back wall Spun like the truth she deserves
[Pre-Chorus] Hands up, hearts low Room full of broken gold If the night can take us Maybe it can hold
[Chorus] The saints go clubbing We go clubbing Grief gets lighter When we’re moving
The saints go clubbing We go clubbing Pain on the floor And we keep on choosing
[Bridge] And if dawn comes sharp And calls us back by name We’ll leave with our scars still glowing Not cured, but changed
[Chorus] The saints go clubbing We go clubbing Grief gets lighter When we’re moving
The saints go clubbing We go clubbing Pain on the floor And we keep on choosing
Short Story
*Even saints need somewhere to put their hands.*
Mara hadn't danced since her grandmother died. That was four months ago, and she had counted every one of them like loose change — forty-three cents you can't quite spend. Tonight her cousin Bea had pulled her onto the ferry to the mainland, to a hall above a fishmonger's shop where teenagers gathered on Friday nights to move under lights the color of plums. Mara stood at the wall with her arms crossed over her chest the way you hold yourself when you're afraid something might spill.
Bea danced like she was having an argument with the floor and winning. Around her, other kids were doing the same — arguing, confessing, negotiating with their own bodies in ways they would never allow themselves in daylight. Mara watched and felt the music arrive in her feet before she had given it permission. It moved up through her ankles like warm water. She kept her arms crossed. She was not ready to be fixed, and she thought dancing might be a kind of fixing.
But the song shifted into something slower and looser, and Mara remembered, without meaning to, the way her grandmother used to sweep the kitchen floor on Saturday mornings — not cleaning, exactly, but dancing with the broom, her slippers whispering across the tiles, her eyes somewhere private. Mara had always thought it was just a habit. Now, standing in a hall above a fishmonger's shop, she understood it was something else entirely.
Her arms came uncrossed. It wasn't a decision. Her body simply offered itself to the music the way you offer your face to rain when you've been indoors too long. She didn't think about how she looked. She thought about her grandmother's slippers on the kitchen tiles, and she moved, and something in her chest that had been sealed shut like a jar cracked open — not breaking, just opening — and what came out was not sadness exactly but all the love that had had nowhere to go for four months, forty-three cents of it, loosened at last.
Bea found her after, outside on the steps in the cool salt air, and didn't say anything, which was exactly right. They sat together and listened to the water. Mara's hands rested open in her lap, which was something they hadn't done in a long time.
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*Some things the body understands long before the mind gives it permission. The body has its own ancient kindness.*
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