Your hands weren’t as blue
As you told me they were
Oh, you’ve been painting all those things
Like some kind of bowerbird
And your lips are
And your hands
I can’t stop checking in the mirror
I can’t stop checkin’
And I keep waking up in the night
I keep examining my body
I can’t stop checkin’ in the mirror
I better think of something
‘Cause I’m turning
Am I turning?
Am I turning?
Am I turning?
I think I don’t feel the same
On the back of my neck
I better think of something
I better think
But your lips are
And your hands
I can’t stop checking in
I can’t stop checkin’
And I keep waking up in the night
I keep examining my body
I can’t stop checkin’ in the mirror
I better think of something
‘Cause I’m turning
Am I turning?
Am I turning?
Am I turning?
Am I turning?
Your hands weren’t as blue
As you told me they were
But I think I’m turning
I think I’m
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