Verse 1 I learned early how to make myself smaller, knees together, Bible flat across my lap, wore the dress they said a good girl ought to, learned which parts of me I had to hold back. I could sing every hymn without looking, say amen exactly when they did, and every Sunday I went home believing I was the reason I still didn’t fit. Pre-Chorus So I prayed harder, stayed longer, tried to make my questions disappear. Thought if heaven wouldn’t have me, there was something wrong with me down here. Chorus I wore that Sunday dress like a confession, every seam another place I learned to bend, thought the parts of me that wouldn’t fit your heaven were the parts of me that I was meant to mend. God, I wasted years believing I was broken, begging mercy for the shape I couldn’t shed— I never failed your version of salvation, your version failed me instead. Verse 2 They called me miracle when it served them, proof that faith could make the broken whole, then told me if I wanted more than I was given, I should search for what was missing in my soul. So I carried every unanswered prayer like evidence against my name, never thought to ask why love that called itself holy needed me ashamed to make its case. Pre-Chorus I got good at being grateful for whatever hurt they handed me. Called the fear conviction ‘cause they told me that’s what faith should be. Chorus I wore that Sunday dress like a confession, every seam another place I learned to bend, thought the parts of me that wouldn’t fit your heaven were the parts of me that I was meant to mend. God, I wasted years believing I was broken, begging mercy for the shape I couldn’t shed— I never failed your version of salvation, your version failed me instead. Bridge God, I was good. I was so damn good. I gave them every piece of me I could. I sang when I was scared, I smiled when I was hurt, I let them teach me shame and call it worth. And the cruelest thing they ever made me do was wear their every failure like my proof— I spent half my life accepting all the blame for a wound they made, then gave my name. Final Chorus So I took that Sunday dress off like a sentence, let it fall beside the person I had been. There was nothing underneath it needing pardon, nothing dirty underneath my skin. I spent years begging heaven to forgive me for a failure that was never mine to confess. Turns out I didn’t fail them— they failed the child who kept showing up in her Sunday dress.
