I know who taught me that

Post-grunge, alternative metal, female vocals

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V5.5

[Intro]
[Instrumental]

[Verse 1]
You only wanted twenty minutes,
I made it sound like you’d asked for blood.
The room went quiet in that careful way
people do when they’ve had enough.

I watched your face begin to close
and felt the sentence leave my mouth—
smooth, efficient, almost elegant,

and somehow
not entirely mine.

I knew the rhythm.
I knew the weight.
The little pause before the blade.

Funny how a voice can disappear
and still remember
how to behave.

[Pre-Chorus]
I thought I left it
where I learned it.

I thought distance
made things end.

Then I heard an old familiar cruelty
come back
wearing my accent.

[Chorus]
I KNOW WHO TAUGHT ME THAT!
That little turn of the knife.
That way of making love feel guilty
just for asking to be alive.

I KNOW WHO TAUGHT ME THAT!
I know where I learned to attack.

You can leave the house,
you can lose the name—

and still bring
something back.

[Verse 2]
Sometimes I shut a cupboard harder
than the moment ever really earned,
or turn one careless word into a trial
because suspicion comes pre-learned.

I can make a question sound like pressure,
make concern feel like a trap,
and hate myself halfway through the sentence
because I know
who taught me that.

But inheritance is strange;
it doesn’t always look like blood.
Sometimes it’s the way your shoulders rise
when somebody gets too close.

Sometimes it’s knowing exactly
where a kind conversation bends—

because somebody trained your nervous system
to hear a threat
before a friend.

[Pre-Chorus 2]
I thought surviving
meant escaping.

Maybe some doors travel too.

Maybe getting out
was only half of what
I had to do.

[Chorus]
I KNOW WHO TAUGHT ME THAT!
That little turn of the knife.
That way of making love feel guilty
just for asking to be alive.

I KNOW WHO TAUGHT ME THAT!
I know where I learned to attack.

You can leave the house,
you can lose the name—

and still bring
something back.

[Verse 3]

Then yesterday
I heard myself say it—
word for word.

Same tired phrase.
Same measured tone.
Same silence afterward.

For half a second
you were standing there
inside the shape my mouth had made.

And I understood
the worst thing you gave me
wasn’t fear.

It was technique.

But knowing where the hand was trained
is not the same as letting it strike.

A reflex can survive a person.

It doesn’t get
to run my life.

[Final Chorus]
I KNOW WHO TAUGHT ME THAT!
I know the turn of the knife.
I know the way a frightened person
learns to make control look right.

I KNOW WHO TAUGHT ME THAT!
And now I know where it stops.

You can leave your fingerprints in me—

YOU DON’T GET
WHAT I PASS ON.

I KNOW WHO TAUGHT ME THAT!
I know exactly where it began.

I don’t have to forgive the lesson.

I DON’T HAVE TO
TEACH IT BACK.

[Outro]
You asked me something harmless.

This time—

I answered
slow.

2810/7500

[Intro] [Instrumental] [Verse 1] You only wanted twenty minutes, I made it sound like you’d asked for blood. The room went quiet in that careful way people do when they’ve had enough. I watched your face begin to close and felt the sentence leave my mouth— smooth, efficient, almost elegant, and somehow not entirely mine. I knew the rhythm. I knew the weight. The little pause before the blade. Funny how a voice can disappear and still remember how to behave. [Pre-Chorus] I thought I left it where I learned it. I thought distance made things end. Then I heard an old familiar cruelty come back wearing my accent. [Chorus] I KNOW WHO TAUGHT ME THAT! That little turn of the knife. That way of making love feel guilty just for asking to be alive. I KNOW WHO TAUGHT ME THAT! I know where I learned to attack. You can leave the house, you can lose the name— and still bring something back. [Verse 2] Sometimes I shut a cupboard harder than the moment ever really earned, or turn one careless word into a trial because suspicion comes pre-learned. I can make a question sound like pressure, make concern feel like a trap, and hate myself halfway through the sentence because I know who taught me that. But inheritance is strange; it doesn’t always look like blood. Sometimes it’s the way your shoulders rise when somebody gets too close. Sometimes it’s knowing exactly where a kind conversation bends— because somebody trained your nervous system to hear a threat before a friend. [Pre-Chorus 2] I thought surviving meant escaping. Maybe some doors travel too. Maybe getting out was only half of what I had to do. [Chorus] I KNOW WHO TAUGHT ME THAT! That little turn of the knife. That way of making love feel guilty just for asking to be alive. I KNOW WHO TAUGHT ME THAT! I know where I learned to attack. You can leave the house, you can lose the name— and still bring something back. [Verse 3] Then yesterday I heard myself say it— word for word. Same tired phrase. Same measured tone. Same silence afterward. For half a second you were standing there inside the shape my mouth had made. And I understood the worst thing you gave me wasn’t fear. It was technique. But knowing where the hand was trained is not the same as letting it strike. A reflex can survive a person. It doesn’t get to run my life. [Final Chorus] I KNOW WHO TAUGHT ME THAT! I know the turn of the knife. I know the way a frightened person learns to make control look right. I KNOW WHO TAUGHT ME THAT! And now I know where it stops. You can leave your fingerprints in me— YOU DON’T GET WHAT I PASS ON. I KNOW WHO TAUGHT ME THAT! I know exactly where it began. I don’t have to forgive the lesson. I DON’T HAVE TO TEACH IT BACK. [Outro] You asked me something harmless. This time— I answered slow.

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