There are chips in her armor, like a porcelain doll's face.
Her eyes are dull with a heartless sort of grace.
She's falling through the cracks like a little blade of grass.
She's falling through the cracks, oh, she's falling very fast.
The girl has a name that she wishes to be called.
She has a personality that no one can recall.
Who was she really, truthfully? Did we really know?
And why was it that no one knew just where it was she'd go?
This girl's been crying quite a lot, her eyes are proof of that.
She criticizes her imperfections and tugs at baby fat.
"Why can't I be pretty? Why can't they notice me?"
"Why can't I be the girl of which he is so deserving?"