# Lyrics [Verse 1] I was a kid with scraped knees, sticky hands from a melted popsicle. The neighbors left their doors open, and we’d run through the yards like ghosts. Nothing made sense, but it didn’t matter. The air smelled like cut grass and gasoline. Everything felt like it belonged to me. [Verse 2] Then the teachers drew the lines in pencil, taught me how to write inside the boxes. Every grade was a quiet verdict, every room hummed with fluorescent light. I learned how to keep my face still, how to fold myself into something acceptable. The clock ticked louder than my heartbeat. [Chorus 1] Now the questions stay awake with me. They slip under the door at night, like moths drawn to the wrong light. If there’s a lesson here, I missed it. Can you tell me what it means? Can you tell me who I am? [Verse 3] Now they warn me not to speak too loud, say it’s dangerous to sound too certain. They want the profile, the signature, the version of me that never interrupts. I scroll past myself in other people’s faces, each one trying to look like they belong. It’s quiet, but it’s not peace. [Chorus 2] The questions don’t sleep anymore. They wait in the glow of my screen, circling like satellites, asking the same thing over and over: Can you tell me what it means? Can you tell me who I am? [Outro] I was supposed to be logical. Now I’m just… digital. Counting numbers that don’t add up, talking to a reflection that won’t answer.
