Verse 1 It didn’t happen all at once — it was a thousand tiny moments you were too young to name. A slammed door. A sharp tone. A look that said you disappointed them before you even understood what disappointment was. You thought adults were carved from truth, but their voices shook and their hands weren’t steady and something in you learned to flinch before you knew why. Pre‑Chorus You kept trying to make sense of it — their anger, their silence, their impossible standards. You thought love meant shrinking, thought safety meant staying quiet. You didn’t know the word “wrong,” so you assumed it was you. Chorus I’m sorry they hurt you — you were supposed to be able to trust them. Their standards were high, but you were always meant to rise higher than the ceilings they mistook for truth. This is where the detachment began — where you learned to fold your feelings into shapes small enough to hide. I wish you wouldn’t, but I know you did — and I know exactly what it cost you. Verse 2 You remember flashes — the sound of your name said like a warning, the way the room felt colder when they walked in. You remember trying to be perfect because perfect kids don’t get hurt, right? You remember the moment you realized perfection wasn’t protection — it was just another way to fail. And that’s when you started disappearing. Not all at once — just a little each time they told you you weren’t enough. Bridge If I could reach into that memory, I’d pull you out of it — out of the confusion, out of the shame that wasn’t yours, out of the belief that adults are always right. They weren’t. They aren’t. They never were. They were just broken people teaching you their brokenness and calling it “growing up.” Final Chorus I’m sorry they hurt you — you were supposed to be able to trust them. Their standards were high, but you were always meant to rise higher than the limits they carved into your skin. This is where you drifted from yourself, where numbness became instinct and silence became survival. I wish you wouldn’t, but I know you did — and I’m here now, helping you pull the pieces out of the wreckage they left behind.

First Cracks