Built Different (Not My Fault) / REWORK

Moodya

Loon!

Moodya

Electronic, experimental

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You hear me say “brave move”, think I’m talking about your outfit.
The one who knows me just nods once – that wasn’t about clothes.
Half of what I say is just to keep you occupied;
the real part sits in the weight, not the wording.

I don’t “overthink”, I run drafts:
version that burns you, version that spares you, version that’s just for me.
I pick one while you talk, you won’t feel the switch;
all you feel is something sting three hours after you got home.

You quote that line from a movie like it explains you.
I don’t correct you, I just clock what you needed that to mean.
You walk away feeling understood;
I walk away with a map I never asked for but now I have.

[PRE-CHORUS]
You hear a pretty line and think that’s the point.
I hear which part of you grabbed it and wouldn’t let go.

[CHORUS / REFRAIN]
It’s not my fault my head won’t sit still;
I see the backstage while you clap for the show.
If one line hits you harder than it should,
I didn’t raise my voice, you just recognised yourself.

It’s not my fault I hear the quiet things:
the breath you hold, the joke you steer around.
I’m not trying to be better than you,
I just stopped pretending I’m not seeing all this.

[VERSE 2]
In small talk I’m three beats ahead and two steps aside,
one ear on the words, one on the parts you leave blank.
I know exactly when you change the subject:
right before the name you can’t say without your throat going dry.

I can walk you to the edge of your own sentence,
stop one word short and leave you staring at the drop.
If I say “That makes sense”, listen to how I say it;
you’ll hear if I believe you or just let you keep the story.

You call me “quiet” when I don’t correct you.
Truth is, I already argued with you twice in my head and won.
Out loud I just say “Could be” and change direction;
you stay proud, I stay tired, the room stays calm.

I don’t need you smaller to feel tall;
my height is in the angles I’m seeing.
If I ever actually decide to aim,
you won’t hear the shot, just the moment it hits.

[BRIDGE]
This isn’t something I switch on for songs.
The same wiring that tears your speech apart on instinct
is the one that checks if the glass moved on the table,
if the tone dropped half a step when the door closed.

I used to think I had to dim it down,
smile more, ask less, pretend I didn’t notice.
Now I just pick who gets the full version;
everyone else gets subtitles with half the lines missing.

[FINAL REFRAIN]
It’s not my fault my head runs this way;
you wanted simple, you got surround sound.
If you feel exposed by a calm sentence,
that’s between you and the mirror, not me.

It’s not my fault I hear the quiet things
and lay them out like cards without naming them.
If you don’t see the pattern, you’re safe;
if you do, you were never the target—you were the proof.

3092/7500

[VERSE 1] I don’t walk into rooms, I scan them and act like that’s normal, count exits, watch who guards the wall, who’s already halfway gone. You tell a story like it’s straight, I’m watching where it bends, the part where your breathing changes, where your hands don’t match your mouth. You hear me say “brave move”, think I’m talking about your outfit. The one who knows me just nods once – that wasn’t about clothes. Half of what I say is just to keep you occupied; the real part sits in the weight, not the wording. I don’t “overthink”, I run drafts: version that burns you, version that spares you, version that’s just for me. I pick one while you talk, you won’t feel the switch; all you feel is something sting three hours after you got home. You quote that line from a movie like it explains you. I don’t correct you, I just clock what you needed that to mean. You walk away feeling understood; I walk away with a map I never asked for but now I have. [PRE-CHORUS] You hear a pretty line and think that’s the point. I hear which part of you grabbed it and wouldn’t let go. [CHORUS / REFRAIN] It’s not my fault my head won’t sit still; I see the backstage while you clap for the show. If one line hits you harder than it should, I didn’t raise my voice, you just recognised yourself. It’s not my fault I hear the quiet things: the breath you hold, the joke you steer around. I’m not trying to be better than you, I just stopped pretending I’m not seeing all this. [VERSE 2] In small talk I’m three beats ahead and two steps aside, one ear on the words, one on the parts you leave blank. I know exactly when you change the subject: right before the name you can’t say without your throat going dry. I can walk you to the edge of your own sentence, stop one word short and leave you staring at the drop. If I say “That makes sense”, listen to how I say it; you’ll hear if I believe you or just let you keep the story. You call me “quiet” when I don’t correct you. Truth is, I already argued with you twice in my head and won. Out loud I just say “Could be” and change direction; you stay proud, I stay tired, the room stays calm. I don’t need you smaller to feel tall; my height is in the angles I’m seeing. If I ever actually decide to aim, you won’t hear the shot, just the moment it hits. [BRIDGE] This isn’t something I switch on for songs. The same wiring that tears your speech apart on instinct is the one that checks if the glass moved on the table, if the tone dropped half a step when the door closed. I used to think I had to dim it down, smile more, ask less, pretend I didn’t notice. Now I just pick who gets the full version; everyone else gets subtitles with half the lines missing. [FINAL REFRAIN] It’s not my fault my head runs this way; you wanted simple, you got surround sound. If you feel exposed by a calm sentence, that’s between you and the mirror, not me. It’s not my fault I hear the quiet things and lay them out like cards without naming them. If you don’t see the pattern, you’re safe; if you do, you were never the target—you were the proof.

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