| Do you remember how it was when you bled?
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| When you loved and burned in those flames that you’ve kept
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| Because Vesta’s long been sleeping
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| And now you’ve come to accept that
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| Your anatomy defines more than a few of the gaping holes in our social fabric
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| More than a few one night stands, more than a few prison bars melted into
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| wedding bands
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| We’ve made you all the peasants and we’ve made ourselves the kings
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| Our queens are still subordinate as an angel without wings
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| We make it easy to belong which means it’s easy to be wrong
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| «Put some plastic in your tits, and you’d look better as a blonde»
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| I remember when you were hopeful
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| And you never thought your life would be lived inside a coffin
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| With a moral sacrifice and a million social obligations, labels and expectations
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| You were young and modern seventeen in vogue and vague pursuit of a cosmopolitan dream
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| When you bled on the bed as you fed those expectations as a whore and not a human
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| You embraced with hesitation the parameters of all you can be Not a mother, not an aunt, not a sister who’s not subdued
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| Because dignity’s not physical and your flesh means more than you
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| Your flesh means more than you; |
| your flesh means more than you
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| Your flesh means more than you; |
| your flesh means more than you
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| I know we’ll wake up one day with a gun to the back of our brains
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| You’ll be asking for your rib and I’ll smile and call you brave
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| Maybe someday when this bloody skull has dried I’ll know our city is in ruins
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| And the greatest source of pride is a monument of dicks and ribs and gender
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| crowns we wore
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| Where underneath, a plaque will read, «No woman is a whore» |