Mama said “You’re a pretty girl. What’s in your head, it doesn’t matter. Brush your hair, fix your teeth. What you wear is all that matters.” Blonder hair, flat chest. TV says, “bigger is better.” South beach, sugar free. Vogue says, “thinner is better.” Just another stage, pageant the pain away. This time I’m gonna take the crown without falling down.
Pretty hurts, we shine the light on whatever’s worst. Perfection is a disease of a nation. We try to fix something but you can’t fix what you can’t see, it’s the soul that needs the surgery.
Ain’t got no doctor or pill that can take the pain away, the pain’s inside and nobody frees you from your body. It’s the soul that needs surgery. It’s my soul that needs surgery. Plastic smiles and denial can only take you so far then you break when the fake facade leaves you in the dark, you left with shattered mirrors and the shards of a beautiful past
When you’re alone all by yourself and you’re lying in your bed, reflection stares right into you. You stripped away the masquerade. The illusion has been shed. Are you happy with yourself? Are you happy with yourself?