Well Miss American cries herself to sleep at night,
‘cause she hasn’t eaten in days
and in late hour,
all her fears come to life
Suddenly the pretty girl on the magazine,
isn’t really what she seems

They built you up on matchsticks, honey,
only to laugh and watch you burn,
‘Cause you just another face that they won’t remember,
but they’ll never know how much you hurt,

Nobody ever knows what goes on behind closed doors,
‘cause you scream at night,
but nobody hears you,
Well you may be seen on national television, baby,
but your still as invisable as anybody else

And they wonder why she’d do that to herself,
but they’ll never know half of it,
‘Cause the scars on her arms
and the bags under eyes
are only just a summerization of what lies under her skin

‘Cause she’s made of broken glass and porcelin,
talks like it hurts to breathe,
acts like she doesn’t need to be needed,
walks like she’s got no idea where she’s been,
‘Cause she’s the only one that knows that she’s
not the same girl on the cover on the magazine

Well, Miss American cries herself to sleep at night,
‘cause that’s when all of her fears come to life,
and she hasn’t eaten in days,
the matchsticks are starting to burn away,
Yet we’ll never know until it’s too late,
yeah, we’ll never know until she’s gone someday