AMERICANA. I’m Miss Americana, poised and perfect, honest I wish that was me on that television screen There’s some things I don’t like, somebody I love But the years are getting shorter, headaches bigger Which is ironic, because medication should fix me rather Than just destroy me Too bad the blood is back in my mouth Last week, I got broken up with again When I couldn’t tolerate the unhappiness I had Can’t shake the feeling that my stomach is failing And the people around me don’t have time to say bye Which is fine, because I don’t want anyone to worry about me Lie about my health, just to have peace Now I’m dead Things I used to heal Just break when I touch them Things I want to have Some I’ll just get bored of It’s easy That I’ll get shot, when I’m old I’m Miss Americana, carrying your baggage for ‘ya But sometimes I get overwhelmed at night I’m 7 months sober, aware of my stomach To think you would want me is frankly quite absurd Cause to be honest, anyone wanting me Would make me lose my mind Was this deranged? Things I find joy in Just make me upset now Things I used to be good at Somehow I just can’t write It’s so odd to me That I care about you, like your my kid But next week, maybe I’ll be happy For a small price of blood and loose skin on my knees I’ve got so many bruises Was too afraid to love them, I’m not perfect