Living in a glass house,
puttin’ on a show,
peelin’ back my ribcage still-
no cure for it yet,
and none that I would take-
it’s lucrative, I guess.
But when the show gets heavy
I’m prone to close the curtains,
and it’s the last little face I see,
between meeting velvet,
that picks at my calm.
She beats her fists before she’s hauled off,
yellin’ “Why can’t we see the whole thing?”
I hear and I scream “‘Cause it’s ugly, little punk!”
but I refund the crowd.
They wanna see if I have stretch marks,
do I cry sometimes and why,
how I shave my legs and do I cuss the alarm,
but I keep closin’ up the curtains
and givin’ their money back.
I’m losin’ a damn lotta money, though,
and it’s time to go big or go home, for
what the hell am I givin’ the world
if I’m keepin’ the ugly stuff back?