Like a bullet set on it's trajectory,
I'm off inflicting damage.
Some kind of mental mastectomy,
I'm no longer a woman.
I've cut parts off of me,
just to fit some picture.
This self imposed image super-imposed,
designed from the ground up.
It's a machine, grind the babies down,
pass the money round.
It's one cold step you take against your fellow man.
You live up to the hype, or you die in the grind.