You say you are turned on but since when were you unplugged,
I tell you no one's watching and you dismiss me with a shrug,
But I go back and check my toothbrush for hairs every morning.
You want something to parade at social functions,
Something pretty and of use in your future echelons,
But I've never sat in a store front window and I don't know if I can fake it now.
You say I am out of hand, which is true,
One thing out of your hand,
Is me, your heroine.
My skin reflects the lot of implanted finery,
And I puke protein and shave my ass reflexively,
And magazines and gossip columns strew the coffee table like bonds.
The act of sensing defines the paradigm of the other,
By fitting in as such, such distinctions suffer,
Taking care not to raise my voice or blush at given issues.
You say I am out of hand, which is true,
One thing out of your hand,
Is me, your heroine.
If you said you were turned on but since when were you unplugged,
I tell you no one's watching, you dismiss me with a shrug,
But I go back and check my toothbrush for hairs every morning.
You say I am out of hand, which is true,
The one thing out of your hand,
Is me, your heroine.
You say I am out of hand, which is true,
The one thing out of your hand,
Is me, your heroine.
On my chest as if I'm crawling down the runway,
I frost my lips and turn blue beneath the midway,
I can pierce a room with my gaze and my arched back posture.
You say I am out of hand, which is true,
The one thing out of your hand,
Is me, your heroine.
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