it's still not a fashion statement, what i wear on my face
and in the places where i'm faring pretty.
the way i sit in my skin's a defense.
it's not coincidence, my countenance.
i'm plagued, i'm crazed, i'll sail for days. so let's set sea.
your majesty, i've never felt this useful.
set me up on your stage; watch the change in my face.
i'll fall, sinking crimson, splendidly.
oh, the beauty in this crime scene.

i said i had some sentiment worth voicing.
i was capable of screaming,
and now here i am bleeding for your sympathy.
don't say you've never felt like me,
but don't bother with apologies.

is my suffering so pretty yet?
does the aesthetic of my anguish
suit your mood? if it's singing true, nod your head.
bash it into the wall and then crawl out of this pity party.
if you know how i do, pain'll be a relief from this bar scene.

just make it stop.  

ask me, is this your decision? no- i've lost control, become the victim
of a number of debilitating conditions, 'cause i fed them.
let me weep for my self-pity, my ugly-pretty misery.

i was promised an improvement.
i was told i'd feel better eventually.
well, i've spent seven years soulless. where's my solace?
where's my peace of mind?
cause i'm still feeling wild, on fire,
directionless and impoverished. i've been a hot mess
for so long it's not even fun anymore.
ultimately even self-pity grows stale and motionless.

yeah, there's no money in being sad and sick, honey.
everybody's heard that one too many times before.