Lyrics

[INTRO — silence. Then: the sound of a wooden pew creaking. A window open, faint morning traffic outside. A church fan HUMS low. One pair of hands begins to clap — slow, steady, imperfect. The piano enters: three notes, high and lonely, with long sustain. Titled1 breathes in. Holds it. Lets it out.]
(spoken, barely above a whisper, close-mic, intimate)
Nobody's here yet.
Just me and the fan and the dust in the light.
And the plate's sittin' on the front pew
Like an open mouth.
Like a question.
So.
(swallow)
I guess I'll go first.
[VERSE 1 — whispered, slow, each line placed carefully like a foot on uncertain ground. The handclaps keep time. The piano answers every few lines with a single chord.]
I confess that I smile in pictures
When I want to be any-fuckin'-where else.
I confess that I say "I'm good"
The way a lock says "I'm fine"
While the whole house is on fire behind it.
I confess that I came to church today
Not 'cause I believe
But 'cause I need a room
Where the silence is allowed to be LOUD.
Where I can sit in the back
And not be the strong one.
Not be the funny one.
Not be the one everybody looks at
And says, "They got it together."
(piano: one chord, low, aching)
I confess that "together" is a lie I tell in daylight.
And this pew is the only place
Where I can be scattered
And call it Sunday.
[PRE-CHORUS — the handclaps slow. The voice gets smaller, closer.]
And I know the plate is supposed to be for money.
Quarters, ones, maybe a five if the sermon hit.
But I got no money today.
I got something else.
I got a whole pocketful of things
I been carryin' so long
They started to feel like bones.
So I'm puttin' 'em in.
Every last one.
Into the plate.
Into the open mouth.
Into the hands of whoever's holdin' it.
(whispered)
Here.
Here.
Here.
(whispered)
Here.
Here.
Here.
[CHORUS — sung, barely. A hymn melody, simple, four notes. The voice wavers. The handclaps continue. The organ drone swells just slightly.]
Collection plate confessions,
Lord, I put 'em in.
Collection plate confessions,
Take 'em off my skin.
I ain't got no silver,
I ain't got no gold,
I got every word I swallowed
And every truth I never told.
Collection plate confessions.
(…confessions…)
Take 'em.
Take 'em all.
[VERSE 2 — the confessions get more specific, more personal. The voice trembles but doesn't break. The piano plays a little more, filling the spaces.]
I confess that I was jealous of the people I loved.
Not in a mean way. In a tired way.
In a, "How do you make it look so easy
When I'm dyin' in the same shoes?" way.
I confess that I left the porch light on
(small, sad laugh)
…and then I resented the person I was leavin' it on for.
'Cause bein' the one who waits
Is its own kind of lonely
That nobody writes a song about.
I confess that I drove to the Waffle House at 2 a.m.
Not for the waffle.
Not for the coffee.
But because I needed a stranger to say, "Hon, you okay?"
'Cause nobody close to me
Asks me that no more
Without already knowin' the answer they want.
(piano: two notes, a question)
I confess that I miss Nana
In a way that still embarrasses me.
That I still set an extra plate on Fridays.
That I still hear her say, "Boy, come eat,"
And I turn around
Like she's in the kitchen.
And she ain't.
And I know she ain't.
And I turn around anyway.
[CHORUS — slightly fuller. A second voice hums underneath, barely audible, like a ghost in the pew behind.]
Collection plate confessions,
Lord, I put 'em in.
Collection plate confessions,
Take 'em off my skin.
I ain't got no anthem,
I ain't got no shout,
I got a whisper and a tremble
And a faith that's flickerin' out.
Collection plate confessions.
(…confessions…)
Take 'em.
I can't carry 'em no more.
[BRIDGE — the handclaps stop. Total stillness. Just the organ drone and Titled1's voice, alone, unaccompanied. The most naked moment on the album.]
(spoken, slow, raw, no rhythm, no music underneath)
And the one I can't say.
The one I been holdin' since the first track.
The one underneath all the other ones.
(long breath)
I'm scared.
I'm scared that if I take off the smile
And the swagger and the Cadillac
And the gold-tooth grin and the halo and the funny stories—
If I take ALL of it off
And just stand here
With my real face
And my real name
And my real, ordinary, unremarkable,
tired, trying, barely-holding-on life—
I'm scared nobody will remember it.
I'm scared you'll look right at me
And see nobody.
I'm scared that "Remember My Face"
Is just something you say
When you already know
They're forgettin'.
(silence. Three seconds. The fan hums. A bird outside.)
(whispered, breaking just a little)
So I put that in the plate, too.
The fear.
The whole ugly, shakin' fear.
And I say, "Lord, if this is all I am—
just a face, just a name, just a Tuesday in a pew—
is that enough to be remembered?
Is that enough to be loved?
Is that enough?"
(the piano returns. One chord. Warm. An answer without words.)
(Titled1, exhaling, almost smiling through it)
…Yeah.
Yeah, I think it is.
I think it's always been enough.