| Dimelo!
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| Eres mi Alma!
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| Siempre!
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| If I could I’d frame your stretch marks
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| You only get them two ways
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| Giving birth or dropping weight
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| Either way, serious pain
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| She is my pride, my bride
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| But before her vato my pride was my bride
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| The picture of endurance, gave birth to a miracle
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| Them lines are memorials, freedom from the torture
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| And pounds you put on were the defense mechanism
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| Like «Maybe if I was ugly, then he would stop touching me»
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| And you endured the teasing of a fat girl on a track team and kept running
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| Huh, you tuned out the ridicule and every calorie burn
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| A cause for celebration
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| Them lines are victory laps, eternal gold medals
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| When I see ‘em, I’m reminded of the freedom, I’m so proud of you
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| How can I ever question the strength and ever doubt you?
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| And your struggles inspire, it’s physical literature
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| But the pain who gave life with the scars
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| To prove it, if I could, I’d frame them
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| It isn’t love if it doesn’t hurt
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| If you don’t feel it, then it doesn’t work!
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| The pain removes the scales, pulls back the veil
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| The bruises in the blood will always tell the tale
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| Of the grace of grief, the beauty of brokenness
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| The piece of pain, the hope of hopelessness
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| The ease of emotion, the frame for the feelings
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| The scars and stretch marks, the proof of God’s healing
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| Yeah, the birth pains have changed
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| Stretched to the limits, stretched marks from giving birth
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| To the death of a cynic and cinematic
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| My emotions like motion pictures imagine
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| A world with no beauty in it, all I see is the negative
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| Undeveloped negatives, nothing worth framing in my frame of mind
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| It’s like an empty gallery with white painted walls
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| All the flaws are hidden, I just wanna adjust my focus
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| Cause all I ever noticed is the thorns on the roses
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| And it’s moments like this when my hope is misguided
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| And I’m looking for perfection in a place I can’t find it
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| My body bears the marks of missing the mark daily
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| The only hope I hold is knowing that my God will never fail me
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| Even though I fall short and that’s no tall tale
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| Now I drive my point home with that new car smell
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| I see beauty in the scars, like colors in a collage
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| The greatest love gave me life through His death on the cross, yeah!
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| It isn’t love if it doesn’t hurt
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| If you don’t feel it, then it doesn’t work!
|
| The pain removes the scales, pulls back the veil
|
| The bruises in the blood will always tell the tale
|
| Of the grace of grief, the beauty of brokenness
|
| The piece of pain, the hope of hopelessness
|
| The ease of emotion, the frame for the feelings
|
| The scars and stretch marks are the proof of God’s healing |