| I know girls who are trying to fit into the social norm
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| Like squeezing into last year’s prom dress
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| I know girls who are low rise, mac eyeshadow, and binge drinking
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| I know girls that wonder if they’re disaster and sexy enough to fit in
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| I know girls who are fleeing bombs from the mosques of their skin
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| Playing russian roulette with death; |
| it’s never easy to accept
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| That our bodies are fallible and flawed
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| But when do we draw the line?
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| When the knife hits the skin?
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| Isn’t it the same thing as purging
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| Because we’re so obsessed with death
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| Some women just have more guts than others
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| The funny thing is women like us don’t shoot
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| We swallow pills, still wanting to be beautiful at the morgue
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| Still proceeding to put on make-up
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| Still hoping that the mortician finds us fuckable and attractive
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| We might as well be buried with our shoes
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| And handbags and scarves, girls
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| We flirt with death everytime we etch a new tally mark into our skin
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| I know how to split my wrists to reveal a battlefield too
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| But the time has come for us to reclaim our bodies
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| Our bodies deserve more than to be war-torn and collateral
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| Offering this fuckdom as a pathetic means to say
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| «I only know how to exist when I am wanted»
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| Girls like us are hardly ever wanted, you know?
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| We’re used up and sad and drunk and
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| Perpetually waiting by the phone for someone to pick up
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| And tell us that we did good
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| We did good
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| I know I am because I said am
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| I know I am because I said am
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| I know I am because I said am
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| My body is home
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| My body is home
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| I know I am because I said am
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| I know I am because I said am
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| I know I am because I said am |