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