| My skin is a story
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| With marks and lines, it makes me feel weary
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| My face is like a galaxy
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| With spotty freckle stars and no sense of gravity
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| But even with the good
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| The bad feels so much stronger
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| My inner demons, they always win
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| And in my mind they saunter
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| So many things that I’ve come to hate
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| They line my body and caress my face
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| I feel so frail and empty too
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| Like a china tea cup with dried out glue
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| I am made of porcelain
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| I’m cracking now and then, it wears me down
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| And I am made of porcelain
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| I look okay but I am breaking down
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| Over and over again
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| Oh, over and over again
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| Stretches and patches corrupt my flesh
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| Slowly eating away any confidence that’s left
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| And I really wish I wouldn’t let
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| My appearance dictate how much I fret
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| Because they say what’s inside is what really matters
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| But I really can’t seem to ignore
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| The parts of me that I abhor
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| It makes me feel like I am weak and battered
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| I am made of porcelain
|
| Cracking now and then, it wears me down
|
| And I am made of porcelain
|
| I look okay but I am breaking down
|
| Over and over again
|
| Oh, over and over again
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| Oooooo, oo-oo-oo-oo-oooo-oo-oo
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| Oo-oo-oo-oo-oooo-oo-oo, oo-oo, oo-oo
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| Oooooo, oo-oo-oo-oo-oooo-oo-oo
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| Oo-oo-oo-oo-oooo-oo-oo, oo-oo, oo-oo
|
| Oo-oo-oooo |